


Star of England

by Hyarrowen



Series: Jumping o'er Times [1]
Category: Henry V (1989)
Genre: Astrology, Astronomy, Established Relationship, Greek and Roman Mythology - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2018-02-17 15:27:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 60,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2314406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyarrowen/pseuds/Hyarrowen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day after the signing of the Treaty of Troyes, Montjoy disappears.  In company with a friend of Montjoy's, Henry follows, on a quest that surpasses all his previous adventures.  Sequel to 'Jumping o'er Times' but can be read as a complete story.</p><p>WARNING: There are brief mentions of crimes against children as committed by Gilles de Rais.  Nothing explicit and nothing on-screen - but the crimes underpin the plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Star of England

'Where is Montjoy King of Arms?'

In the midst of the preparations for his betrothal, while preparing to go through the terms of dowry and dower once more, with his crown a constant reminder of duty in its open casket on the council-table, Henry spoke the words which showed where his thoughts truly lay. Somewhere in the Duke's palace was Princess Katherine, doubtless surrounded by ladies, as nervous as he was himself but as aware of duty to be done. And here were other heralds who had brought the contract to him, men wearing his own arms and those of the French and Burgundian rulers.

Montjoy was not there. He had been at the signing of the treaty yesterday, staying almost out of sight behind the lords and ladies of the French court. Henry, doing his best to woo and win a wife – poor girl, she deserved much better than he could give her - had been acutely aware of him the whole time. And now, no Montjoy. Someone else in his place.

'Your majesty, he is indisposed.' That was the Frenchman.

A lie. Not an insolent one, but not a diplomatic one either; he could see it in the man's eyes. Montjoy of all men would have been here today if he were not at death's door. The sense of duty that had torn him from Henry's side a fortnight ago would drive him to Henry's formal betrothal. Something was wrong.

'Brother Bedford, do you go with him and find out what's amiss.' He glanced over at his brother, standing stolidly by the window of the state bedchamber, and jerked his head. Find him. Make sure he's safe. Bedford nodded, wooden, and left the room in the company of this other King of Arms.

Exeter, glancing at the crown, heaved the very faintest of sighs. Henry ignored him, ignored the crown, and pointed at his sword. Gloucester brought it to him and buckled it about his waist. The atmosphere in the lodging's presence-chamber altered subtly. This was no longer a state ceremony they were preparing for. Something else was in the air.

'Now, gentlemen, let us wait.' And they did, in uneasy silence, while the fire crackled softly on the hearth and the sounds of the town below came in through the windows. Henry's fingers tapped on his sword-hilt.

Bedford came back into the room, and shook his head. 'They don't know where he is. His room is empty, no word left with anyone. He hasn't been seen since yesterday evening.'

'Then we will find him.'

Exeter moved up close beside him. 'Your majesty,' he said quietly. 'Seal this contract first. That's what you came here to do. That's what the battles were about. Then you may search for him. We'll set men to search for him, while you're with the court.' This last with the closest to an air of desperation that he'd ever seen his uncle display.

Henry looked round at the heralds, at all the men who had not been with them on their strange journey through the past. 'Clear the room of all but my councillors,' this to the door-wards, 'these men may wait in the ante-chamber. Sergeant Bates and his squad will wait with them.' And, having ensured they could not run through the town spreading rumour that the English King was as mad as the French, he waited a few moments while the room emptied of most of its occupants.

And no-one would meet his eyes. Nor did anyone speak.

Now Henry was beginning to feel rather a fool. But... He promised me he would be here and He brought us all back and Does someone else know that? All those questions and more, and he could not forget how, on the eve of the invasion of France, his own cousin had been admitted to his chambers with news of betrayal and conspiracy that would have toppled him from his throne and left the kingdom in ruins. Had he paid no heed to Mortimer, refused to admit him to his presence, said that he had matters of greater import to deal with than to speak to a negligible kinsman – disaster. And Mortimer was negligible, and Montjoy he trusted with his life and his honour.

'Sir Thomas,' he began. 'You and the escort brought him to Troyes a week ago. What did you see? What did you hear? Speak.'

The old knight, unfamiliar in his surcoat with its martlets – how long had they lived as vagabonds, in caves or camps under strange stars, waiting for Montjoy to solve the riddle and bring them home? - thought for long moments before replying.

'The journey was simple enough. We stayed at your castles, or at inns once or twice. We went through Alençon and Paris, but' – he paused for a moment – 'Fontainebleau was not so far away. We skirted the forest a little way to the south.'

'Fontainebleau. Where Tommaso had his workshop, or so Montjoy told us. What did you see there?'

'No sign of anything untoward, Sire. Everything was quiet. Not even Montjoy had anything to say about the place - though to be sure he spoke little throughout the journey.'

Nor had Henry, as he in his turn had taken the road to Troyes. Lonely nights, and days which brought him ever closer to a duty he would gladly have shirked. Was shirking now.

'We know that Tommaso was in Bayeaux, when he set the spell that entrapped us,' said Henry. 'But that was months ago. He could be anywhere by now. He could be here.'

'Maybe, Sire. But we had no word of him on our journey.'

In the dark, he was searching in the dark. 'And at Alençon?'

'Quiet, though we had some ill-looks.' That was unsurprising, the last Duke having been killed at Agincourt.

'Did you see the new Duke?'

'No, nor any sign that he was there. He's but a child, though; he could not be a threat to us.'

'So many of them are children. None should be a threat. But someone's taken Montjoy from our midst, and why would - ?' But Sir Thomas had just raised his head as if remembering something. 'Go on.'

'As we left St-Malo. There was a youth, a lordling, riding through the streets with his retinue. A cross sable on a field or. He may even have seen Montjoy take his leave of your majesty.'

They had clasped hands for a moment at the gatehouse, a last touch before parting forever, as they thought, and even then, Henry had hoped Montjoy would change his mind and stay. But no, he had opened his fingers and let Henry's hand fall, and blinked back the tears which were shining in his eyes and ridden out across the drawbridge, leaving Henry standing, equally forlorn, in the courtyard.

'Ask our pursuivant who that might be. As for Troyes: who was here?'

'King Charles and Queen Isabeau only came in three days ago, with the Dauphin and the princess. The Duke of Burgundy was here when we arrived. Some few of the French lords, too. Oh - ' he drew a sudden breath. 'Waiting on Queen Isabeau... Christine de Pisan. She had a new ballad for the court.'

Christine de Pisan. Daughter of the man who had sent them into the past. Tommaso's daughter.

-x-

And she, when summoned, was overwrought to the point of folly. 'King of England, I have no time for this. Tell your guards to open that door, or I swear I will break it down and go my ways!'

Henry felt his face go slack with surprise. No-one, no-one had ever spoken to him like this before. Exeter was moving threateningly towards her, but Henry stopped him with a glance. The woman was beyond ordinary fear, ablaze with rage. 'Madame. Best you tell me why, and wherefore, and then we may discuss doors and guards. Speak. Now.'

'My children! Where are my children?'

'I do not know. Why do you think I should?'

'Chop-logic! Here you are, you and your people, and they disappear the night after you arrive!'

'Disappear, you say?' He took a pace forward. The very night Montjoy, too, had vanished.

She covered her face with her hands and gave a wordless cry of frustration. 'Do you have ears, King of England? Ah, if you cannot listen, I'll be gone - ' and she swung away and was halfway to the door before anyone could stop her.

Henry was after her in a moment. 'Madame. Wait. Your children are gone, you say. Someone else is missing, too. It cannot be coincidence. Tell me what happened. Wine for the lady,' he called over his shoulder, and led her to a bench, and sat down beside her.

Erpingham brought a cup of wine, and Henry handed it to her. She wrapped both hands around it and drank, then set it down on the bench impatiently; a woman approaching middle years, with fierce grey eyes bright with intelligence, hands clenching on her knees, a gown plain and severe but rich enough to speak of a little money.

'Now, madame. Speak.'

She drew a breath, braced herself. 'Last night I was with the court, reading them my new ballad. I have to earn money, you understand? And at seven this morning I went to their room and my children were gone. Their maid struck down, the room in turmoil, the window forced, and I slept in the next room and knew nothing!'

Henry glanced up at his uncle, his brothers. Gloucester was watching her with a crease between his brows. 'Sire, if I may?' he asked, tilting his head at her. And when Henry nodded permission, he addressed her directly.

'Madame, forgive this intrusion - but why do you have to earn money? Are you not provided for?'

She stared at him with contempt. 'Because I have none and must support my children. My kinswomen. I have no time for your foolish questions,' and she made to stand up again.

Henry put out a hand to stay her. 'You are a widow, we know that. But you have a father still living, court astrologer to your king.' And all the men in the room saw where this was leading, and their attention sharpened. 'Why does he not support you?'

Christine de Pisan said flatly, 'He went back to Italy, or so he said. More than a year ago. We have had no word of him since, though we sent there, to try to find him. The money he gave us is almost at an end. Therefore, all I have to support my family is my writing. My ballads have always been popular at court. And thus I myself, and my children, and my aunts and cousins have enough to eat. Now, my lord the king, I will go, whether you will it or no.'

'Madame, we will give you what help we may. Sir Thomas, go with her – to the provost? And later, with your leave, my brother Gloucester will go to your house, and see what may be seen there.'

'The city authorities here will do what is necessary. I do not need your help.'

'It seems to me that we need each other's help. Your father has gone, and your children. It may be that you were only spared because you were at court last night. Someone has an interest in your family. And a man of mine was taken last night too. It cannot be a coincidence.'

'And your betrothal? All Troyes is waiting for that.' She was watching him with narrowed eyes now.

'If there's some conspiracy afoot, I wish to know about it. That is all, madame.'

She dropped him an ironic curtsey, gathered up Sir Thomas with a look, and departed the room.

There was a concerted sigh when they had gone.

'Conspiracy, my lords,' said Henry, facing them. 'We've encountered it before on the eve of a great enterprise. I put back an invasion for a week because of it, and I will postpone a betrothal for the same time if necessary.' He locked gazes with Exeter.

'An hour is all you need for the betrothal.'

'An hour for the betrothal, but we would be committed to France thereafter.' He gestured at the parchments, waiting to be signed, with the details of the financial arrangements set out upon them. 'I have no wish for that until these disappearances are explained. Tommaso. His grandchildren. Montjoy,' Montjoy, his beloved, who had brought them all safe home and set aside his and Henry's love for his duty to France. 'I will not abandon Montjoy, my lords, do you imagine that I would? Whoever has taken Christine de Pisan's family wishes to control Tommaso, may even have him at this moment. Tommaso, who set the spell, do I have to remind you? And I do not doubt that they have Montjoy too.'

If they thought him besotted, deluded, starting at shadows, well, that was just too bad. 'Brother Bedford,' he continued. 'Find out where the rest of the de Pisan family are. See that they are guarded, discreetly. For the rest, we must wait until Gloucester returns. And I'll speak to Sergeant Bates and his men now. They may remember more of the journey here with Montjoy.'

Bates and his squad had been detailed to watch, and then protect Montjoy, throughout their journey through the past. Once here in Troyes, that duty had passed from them. Henry rebuked himself bitterly for a moment – he should never have left Montjoy unguarded! - then braced himself and called for the door to the antechamber to be opened. And a round dozen of archers filed through, strong, burly men all, with their bows in their hands and arrows at their belts, Bates, Court, Guy and the rest of them, all of whom owed Montjoy their lives; all with grim expressions and an air of supreme capability.

The sight gave Henry great comfort.

'Well, my friends, it seems that there's knavery afoot once more. Our Herald's gone missing, and Tommaso and half his family, and if that's a coincidence then I’m much mistaken. I will not proceed with the alliance' – he did not say wedding - 'until I know where, and how, and why.'

'Sire, we'll help all we can. You may rely on us.' And the rest of the squad nodded at Bates' words.

Of course, they had less to lose than the nobles if the alliance with France did not proceed; no chance of wide lands and advantageous marriages for them! But Henry was now inclined to the opinion that there would be small profit to be had in any case, and that his astonishing victory at Agincourt had no wider significance. How his thoughts had changed in the last few months! His first duty was to defend England, and the acquisition of an empire of sorceries might well have the opposite effect. And of course Montjoy, the closest he had to an astrologer-sorcerer of his own, was essential to that duty.

'Then tell me, what happened on that journey you made from St-Malo? What did you see, or hear? Who did you meet?'

And so Bates took him through his own account of the journey; the uneasy peace of the countryside, the rain, the little garrisons where they stayed, the Herald riding quiet and sad in their midst. Henry sighed a little when he heard this last. He himself had been lorn and lost during those days, and the nights had been worse. The loss of that other lover, the traitor Scroop, devastating though it was at the time, had been a minor thing by comparison.

'Would anyone have guessed what he did for us? No-one spoke of it, surely?'

'No, Sire, but we're dealing with sorcerers here. Who knows how they find their knowledge out?'

A shiver ran round the men.

'No, if our enemies were so powerful, they would surely have struck us down long before now. That spell was the only time they've moved against us. If Tommaso is missing - '

'Tommaso had the learning. Maybe he was acting at someone else's behest,' said Gloucester.

There was a little silence. They had so many enemies here in France.

'Someone who must work by stealth. Who will steal away children, and a herald. Someone Tommaso would run from.'

'With your permission I'll go now to Madame de Pisan's house, and search it for signs.' Gloucester was ahead of them all, but -

'Send after the lady and Sir Thomas, and ask her leave first. We'll do ourselves no favours by antagonising her.'

There was a fervent nodding of heads around the room; Gloucester smiled rueful agreement.

  
-x-

Blanchlyverer, the pursuivant who had lately come down from Calais with Westmoreland, on being summoned to discourse of French blazons, said, 'Sire, that would be Gilles de Rais. He's a young man, come into his lands but a few years since, mostly in the west. He's extravagant, they say...'

And Erpingham broke in, sharply, 'Not much more than a boy – that would be the youth we saw at St-Malo. Going towards Brittany, as we turned east. It was as we left the castle.'

A short silence. Then Henry said, 'Blanchlyverer, tell me all you know of him. His lands, and castles, his friends and family, his alliances and allegiances.'

Blanchlyverer's eyes lost their focus for a moment, as he strove to recall what he knew. Then, 'He will inherit lands mostly in the west, in Brittany and Anjou. His father is long dead, and his uncle was killed in the battle.' There was no need to say which battle. 'He was betrothed to an heiress; she's very young, and her properties march with those of Rais. I am sorry, sire, I cannot remember who she is at this moment...'

'Find out, Blanchlyverer, and you've done well,' and the pursuivant bowed, and took himself from the room. Henry's attention was diverted for the moment as he did so, and he wondered suddenly what Katherine was doing, in her apartment in the palace? Might she be relieved at her reprieve, or chagrined at the delay of her marriage to a king? And there were voices coming up from the streets; the people, looking forward to a show, for a parade of kings and princes. No matter. His retinue, and the troops that had come down from Calais to meet it, were well able to keep the peace. But meanwhile, there was conspiracy afoot.

  


An hour later, and Gloucester was back with his report. He told how Madame de Pisan had given them the run of her father's books, and left them to search while she paced up and down in the hall of the house.

Gloucester added, as if thinking aloud, 'De Rais likes the high life. Maybe he wants more money, and hopes to raise it by sorcery. But Tommaso has vanished, so he steals away his grandchildren, for Christine de Pisan is too much involved at court to be readily taken. And thus he hopes to call Tommaso to heel.'

'But the Herald?' asked Bedford. 'Why take him?'

'Maybe word has got out of his part in our return. Maybe he's seen as a threat to de Rais' further plans, since he broke the first spell that he and Tommaso set.' And Henry thought, maybe he knows of our affection somehow, and holds him hostage for my good behaviour.

'We will find them,' he said, 'we have a trick or two of our own to play. If de Rais were so very powerful, none of our conquests in France would have been possible, so he must work by devious means; and with Tommaso gone, he has lost his main confederate. But we must find him before he brings Tommaso back, and before he harms the children, or we'll have the lady against us too, and I don't doubt she has something of her father's learning. And we must find Montjoy. He's the closest we have to a sorcerer of our own and we'll need him. Gentlemen... I must find him.' He looked slowly round at each in turn; at all the men who had fought their way through the wild adventures of the last three months, all of whom owed their lives to Montjoy, all of whom knew of the love between their king and the Herald, cut short in its first sweet flowering.

Some of them met his eyes, some did not. Exeter appeared impatient but resigned. It was of no moment.

'So, each to your tasks. Exeter, Bedford, see to the retinue, and to the men who've come from Calais. Have them in readiness to march as soon as we know more; but be discreet about it. Sir Thomas, I will ask you to return to the de Pisan house later, to enquire whether Christine has had more thoughts about her father or de Rais. We need to keep her on our side. Gloucester, stay with me; I would speak with you further.'

The room emptied as the rest of his men went about their business with varying degrees of willingness. Henry went over to one of the windows, and looked out. Below was a walled garden, its roses showing their first buds. Three months they had spent in the past, by Montjoy's journal, and all of them had drawn together during that time. It was this closeness that he hoped would serve him well now.

Gloucester was at his shoulder now, alert and waiting for him to speak.

'Brother, I need your help more than anyone else's, I think. For you knew more about the spell than any of us, save Montjoy himself,' said Henry. Gloucester and Master Stephen, Henry's chaplain, had acted almost as assistants to Montjoy in unravelling the clues they had found; though they lacked his quick eye for small details and his familiarity with astrology from the French court, they were both learned men and of high intelligence, and the three of them had been in frequent discussion together. And Montjoy had been in Gloucester's company on the expedition across the ash-fields under the volcanoes, who knew how long ago; the Quest for the Duckweed, as they had laughingly called it afterwards.

'Yes, and I have the notes he made safe in my keeping. Do you wish me to look through them again? Do you think he, and Tommaso and the children, have all been sent back into the past?'

Henry swung round to face him. 'That hadn't even occurred to me. Let us hope not – but maybe Montjoy could find his way back, having done it once already!' Though they had needed so much to help them return the last time; the powers temporal and spiritual held by Henry as king and Stephen as priest, for instance. 'But it seems to me that there may be a way to find him – and I suppose Christine's family will be with him, wherever he is. So I want you to devise me a spell to search for him.'

Gloucester looked completely taken aback. 'I have no idea how to do such a thing,' he said.

'So Montjoy said, every time I asked the same of him. But he always found the answers. And he had your help. So try, brother. The safety of the realm may depend on it. The safety of all Christendom, maybe! And Montjoy himself; I'll leave no stone unturned to find him. You understand that, surely.'

'Yes. Yes, I do. And for all that our uncle may wish otherwise, and the Church too, I think he is your match in every way.'

'Thank-you.' Henry turned back to the window, looking out across Troyes, basking in the afternoon sunlight. The hollowness at his heart threatened to overwhelm him. After a pause he continued, 'Ach, I feel so helpless... here I am, so fettered by my kingship that I may as well be a prisoner. Back there in the past we were in danger every minute of every day, and I had such freedom to act.' He'd killed a tyrant, a monster as big as any dragon, while the comet flared overhead, lighting the scene with a fierce intensity. He'd felt alive then, as rarely before. Here there were walls and treaties and a crown that overshadowed the man; and his beloved herald gone and no way to protect him.

'You need not be a prisoner,' said Gloucester. 'Have you not adopted a disguise before?'

  
-x-

Dusk was falling over Troyes. The townsfolk were closing down their businesses or making their way homeward through the darkening streets. A waning moon rode high above, half-veiled by cloud now. It was a subdued scene; there were Burgundian and English troops everywhere to keep order, and they did their job well. Even in the taverns there was simply the hum of conversation.

A party of English archers was escorting the Duke of Gloucester from the lodgings of the English royal party to the palace. They wore padded or quilted armour; some had steel caps; one had a hood that overshadowed his face. But they all bore the fearsome longbows that not so long ago had laid low the flower of French chivalry. An arrow that could pierce armour was not something to be invited; the burghers of Troyes gave way to them, and anyhow were the English not the allies of Burgundy against France? Sure, the Duke's brother had died in the battle fighting for the French, but he'd been a rash young man and had gone the way of rash young men since the dawn of time. So reasoned the townspeople of Troyes, and continued on their homeward path.

When Gloucester's party reached the postern of the palace gatehouse, one of his men stepped forward to require admittance. The guard at the door sent inwards for leave, which was granted forthwith; there had been much coming and going throughout the day. But the chamberlain who met them was perplexed at Gloucester's request, that he be taken again to the room belonging to Montjoy King of Arms.

'We are concerned at the disappearance of so many from the French court,' said Gloucester, 'I am tasked to find out what I may. Do we have your leave to search, sir?' The lions and lilies on his surcoat reminded them of who he was, and the archers in his guard stood stolidly at his back, and the chamberlain, after hurried consultation with a colleague, let them in.

They filed up the twisting staircase by lantern-light, passing a couple of doors leading onto intermediate floors. Henry, climbing up in the middle of the line of men, some way behind his brother, could hear people talking in the rooms within, discussing this or that before seeking their beds; and then the voices fell away as he climbed higher. On the third floor their party left the spiral staircase and followed the chamberlain down a narrow corridor.

The chamberlain's voice was deferential (so fortunate that Montjoy had taught him a little French! he had found it useful yesterday too, when wooing the princess.) 'Your grace, this is Montjoy's room. It is as it was left; the servants have been much occupied, you understand.'

'No matter, sir,' said Gloucester courteously. 'We will look at our leisure; you need not wait.'

Thus dismissed, the chamberlain stood aside to let them enter, then took his leave.

A dozen men within the small room made for a tighter fit than was comfortable. Sergeant Bates took his squad back into the corridor, his face set; this was not a place where he could defend his king with any ease. But so high in the gatehouse, there was no traffic of other people at the moment; and Henry glimpsed a rope slung about Court's person under his cloak - in case a quick departure should be called for, no doubt – not that he'd take so undignified a route.

Now Henry was able to look around him. A narrow bed, a chest, a stool. Shutters fastened tight against the night air. Montjoy's satchel, set down in a corner. His breath caught at the sight of it. It was though its owner would walk in through the door at any moment.

'What do you think?' Gloucester's voice, quiet at his elbow.

'I hardly know.' He opened the chest. Montjoy's bag and cloak lay within it. 'But he's left everything. It's as though he had no idea he would be leaving.' Swiftly he checked the bedclothes, suppressing the feeling that it was an intrusion, but if he missed a vital clue by shirking the task? But no; nothing to be seen there, no note or token. He drew the blankets back up again. But Henry, looking this way and that for any sign of Montjoy, pounced on a silver ring that Guy held out to him. He had worn its twin upon his own finger until yesterday. He forced out, 'Any sign of... blood, of a struggle?'

'None, Sire. It was lying over there,' and he pointed at a small chest against the wall.

Montjoy would not have dropped it by accident. Therefore he had let it fall deliberately, or someone had taken it from him. He closed his hand on it, fiercely, protectively.

'Anything else? Any sign of Christine's children?' he asked the room at large.

'No, nothing,' said Gloucester.

'Bring all you can find that's of any interest,' said Henry. 'Gloucester, Sergeant, we'll go back to the gatehouse.' And he went out into the corridor. 'Did they even come here?' he wondered aloud. 'He was at court all day. They could not have taken him from there. Where else would he go?' and answered himself straight away. 'The stables. Reynard.'

  
-x-

Back down the stair to the gatehouse door, and a short step across the outer bailey to the low building set against the curtain wall. Bates spoke to the stable-master while Gloucester stood at the edge of the lantern-light, looking aristocratic and unapproachable. Henry, a little to one side of him with his longbow in his hand, had to admire his demeanour.

They filed quietly into the warm-scented gloom of the building, down the long lines of stalls with inquisitive heads poking over the half-doors, or perhaps with nothing but a glossy flank to be seen. In one of the smaller stalls towards the end of the room they found him: Reynard, Montjoy's horse, and as Henry moved up beside Gloucester the chestnut lifted his head and nickered.

'Yes, old lad, it's good to see you, too,' said Henry under his breath, and stroked his neck and ears. Guy opened the half-door, and stood aside to let Henry and Gloucester in, Henry unshuttering the lantern a little further. Its warm glow fell on a hay-net (Reynard still had one or two wisps sticking out of his mouth,) a manger and bucket of water, familiar leather saddle-bags hanging on a peg, and Reynard's saddle and harness.

Henry seized the bags and delved into them. Reynard's brushes, a spare bit, a knife, a roll of leather to repair his gear, a case with needles in it. A old bow-string with a tuft of fur attached, that he recognised as one of the tiger-cubs' toys – Henry smiled – and a few dried dates from the palm trees that grew around Castle Hill. He unrolled the leather, and a scrap of paper fell out; he caught it as it fluttered to the floor and angled it to the light.

Tiny writing on it, and a series of signs. He scanned it intently. He would need better light to read the writing, but - 'Sagittarius,' he muttered, 'that's for him.' He pointed to the little crossed arrow at the bottom of the note, almost like a signature. 'And here are Jupiter and the Sun.' The signs that had identified Henry in the first part of the spell, that had sent them to the land of the sail-backs. 'We must take this.' He put everything back into the bag and stowed it under his cloak.

'Reynard?' asked Gloucester. 'Do we just leave him?'

'We'll have to for the present.' And with one last pat, they left the horse and went swiftly back to the door.

They went through the streets, full dark now and with a light rain falling. All the people of Troyes were snug indoors, with only a few armsmen out and about. The Duke of Gloucester's party came safe back to the King's lodging and climbed the stairs to the royal apartment. Here they found Exeter awaiting them, and Westmoreland, who had arrived yesterday from Calais with a sizeable expeditionary force, mustered when Henry and his retinue had been caught up in Tommaso's spell. Both of them were seething, but quietly so. The archers, at Henry's nod and word of thanks, filed out of the room and back to their own quarters, leaving the satchel and Montjoy's bags on a table.

Henry shed his cloak and laid aside his longbow, but rested one hand one his sword-hilt. 'Cousin Westmoreland!' he said affably. 'Are your men settled?'

Westmoreland bowed. 'Snug in the Abbey tithe-barn for now, your majesty.' He paused. 'I am very glad to see you in good health, sire, after all your adventures,' and the unspoken words 'make sure you stay that way' hung in the air.

'Thank-you; and your journey went well? No magical ambush along the way?' Sheerest trivia and pleasantry, followed by a reminder that they all trod upon a quagmire.

'There was no trouble. The Duke's writ and ours run in these parts. The people let us go our ways; they've seen too many armies passing this way and that to take much interest as long as they're left alone, and I gave strict orders to that effect.'

'Good. And our brother Clarence, and the country?'

'He holds the Tower for you, and has summoned Parliament to await your return. The country's readying for another campaign, if need be.'

'That's welcome news.' Clarence had been shunted to one side as the Agincourt campaign had progressed, as being rather too impetuous and given to going his own way to be trusted on that grim slog through the rainy autumn; but Henry's most trusted captains were with him, and he and Parliament would keep each other in check, perhaps, for a while. 'But we hope another campaign will not be necessary, and to that end' – he did not look at Exeter – 'we have been busy this evening. Gloucester, we'll look through these things now.' And he turned aside to the table and began to unpack the bags.

His brother joined him, and together they laid out the contents, Henry taking especial care with the note, smoothing it out carefully. 'In haste. Rumour of a plot. Be careful.'

Henry read it out, then closed his hand on it briefly, laid it aside, and looked again into the saddle-bag. The ink-pot, and the quill Montjoy had used to write with, taken from the crest of an axe-beak, were in there too. 'So, he knew something was wrong, but not what it was. We believe it may be de Rais, and that he has Tommaso's grandchildren. We do not know where any of them are. My lords, your thoughts.'

Gloucester said, 'It's likely that where they are is where de Rais will be. He will need them close at hand if he's holding them hostage.'

'But maybe not Tommaso, or we would already be under attack. Tommaso might be safely away, maybe in Italy where he said he would go, maybe elsewhere. But it seems neither of them can move against us alone.'

'We must not forget we can be assaulted by other means,' said Exeter. 'We are deep within France now, and if the Burgundians should suddenly turn against us, we are lost.'

'We have your men, Westmoreland, as well as the retinue. More than eight hundred all told. Burgundy's interests lie with us, for the present.'

'We must move soon, one way or another,' said Exeter grimly. 'Either to seal this betrothal, or to leave Troyes. We must be sure what we are about.'

Henry made his decision. 'Call Master Stephen and Dr Colnet, and have Allbright Mailmaker in readiness. Gloucester, you worked most closely with Montjoy. There is one thing we have not tried yet, and Tommaso himself has shown us the way.'

  
-x-

'Another talisman?' Gloucester was doubtful. They were all doubtful. Westmoreland, Exeter and Erpingham stood together, a little aside; Henry heard Westmoreland say. 'But did you not simply undo the spell that was laid on you, rather than cast one of your own?' But at the table the talk was all of planets and stars and herb-lore.

Henry looked up once, and glanced out of the window, still unshuttered since the night was warm. There were the familiar stars; there was Venus, serene, beautiful. 'We will need planet-light; Bedford, will you speak to John Melton?' And his brother nodded and left the room.

Gloucester was scribbling notes from Dr Colnet's almanac, consulting with him as he did so. Henry left them to it; 'Come, we'll eat, and have food sent in. Call us when you have something for us!'

For a full hour they ate and talked, desultory, at the other end of room. Henry was itching to go and ask what they'd found or thought up, to read over their shoulders and offer his own thoughts. But this would not hurry their thoughts, not by an instant. He curbed his impatience, and looked again at maps of eastern France, heard Westmoreland's reports and considered what marches he might have to make. And there was still the possibility of a wedding, a week hence. There was still a choice, and he knew that most of his advisers were willing him to go to that wedding.

Here was Exeter again, looming over Henry for all that he was shorter.

'What is it, Uncle?' It was sure to be something unpleasant, something he didn’t want to face – there were any number of things that could be described thus.

Sure enough: ‘The banquet tomorrow. Will you go, or will you miss it?’ Bearded face set, hands on his belt; stern reminder of his duty.

The banquet. Henry had forgotten it. Such a trivial thing. He’d never liked feasts; full bellies, empty talk.

He stared through Exeter for a moment, assessing the risks and advantages to each course of action. The insult to Burgundy and to France, and not least to the princess; the wasted time.

And yet, it could prove useful. It could buy them time, as opposed to wasting it.

'I will attend it. But I want to be able to leave Troyes at a moment's notice by the next day.' The day of his public betrothal. 'We can send messages if necessary.' So many possibilities; insurrection, rebellion, any pretext of policy would do.

Maybe the princess would be glad of his departure; she'd made him work hard enough for her acceptance of him!

'We can say we wish to pray at the Abbey.' Exeter, of course.

'I think... not. For one thing, Burgundy and King Charles may wish to make it a matter of state, and accompany us. For another, I have no wish to use God's name thus.'

A baffled silence. 'Think on it, my friends. We're a wily crew; we can surely come up with something! And' - raising his voice - 'Gloucester, it seems to me that you may wish to use the Abbey's library. It's a good one, I hear. You and Master Stephen may well ask the Abbé for permission to use it, and take an escort with you; if we go by dribs and drabs we'll create less of a stir than if we march out with all banners flying.'

Gloucester nodded decisively, obviously relieved to have a course of action, and he left the room in search of Stephen. The others lapsed into thought. Henry found his eye straying to a chess-set on its table a little to one side. He took up the map of eastern France; asked for pen and ink, and sketched Troyes and its environs on the back. Then he sat alone at the little table, and moved the chess pieces back and forth across it, not with any fixed plan in mind but almost letting his hands think for him.

Below, he heard the movement of men, the clatter of hooves, the jangle of harness; Gloucester and his party were beginning to make preparations for their departure.

Exeter was frowning; Henry could almost feel it, though it was directed into the fire, not at him. Bedford, silently watching; Sir Thomas, glancing out of the window at the street below, anxious but collected. The chess pieces swept back and forth across the sketch-map; king, knights, pawns. How to get out of the city?

-x-

The next afternoon, splendid in crimson houppelonde, his crown glinting in the westering sun, Henry rode in procession to the palace, his kinsmen (save one) about him and his archers before and behind. There was the palace, rising high above the streets. There were the guards at the gatehouse; there was the courtyard, with the stables to one side. They dismounted, the archers led the horses away, and the royal party gathered at the steps to the palace, with just a half a dozen bodyguards in attendance. Henry looked up at the great doorway, where Burgundy stood ready to greet them, and braced his shoulders.

The banquet only seemed interminable. It could not have been more than three hours later that it drew to a close, but to Henry, chafing to be off, the rich food, the talk, the toasts were a trial – though the music was good, to be sure.

Christine de Pisan was there, too, which surprised him – but she was attached to the court and no doubt had little choice in the matter. Her face was composed, and gave no sign of the anxiety which must surely be racking her. Indeed she read out a short poem, elegant and complimentary, and the guests applauded, himself included.

Now, he thought, as the first course was removed, Gloucester would be on his way out of the town gates, inconspicuous in the centre of a party of archers. Now, as he smiled reassuringly at his bride-to-be (and she in nervous mood to find herself the centre of so much attention) their moveable goods would be being packed up. And now, as he bowed over Queen Isabeau's hand and received a gracious smile and inclination of the head in return, Westmoreland and his men, crammed shoulder to shoulder even in the immensity of the Abbey tithe-barn, would no doubt be cursing him roundly as they looked over their gear and made preparations for tomorrow's ride.

He still had no idea where they would be riding to.

He would think of something.

So the feast drew to a close, and he bade farewell to Burgundy and his son, standing tall and straight by his side, and next to them Queen Isabeau and her daughter; and to her father, sad and dignified and looking a little lost. The ranks of French nobility were depleted, to be sure, and there was one man missing who, according to Exeter, had seemed a true friend to him: Montjoy King of Arms.

Well. Time enough to deal with that when he had Montjoy back again.

Finally, farewells said, he led his party back down the steps and into the courtyard, where it was now full dark. For some reason, their horses were not waiting for them. Exeter rumbled his annoyance, but Henry said 'No matter, Uncle,' and he and his party went across to the lantern-lit stables rather than wait in the courtyard. Here Exeter began to take issue with Sergeant Bates, who had been discovered drinking with the hostlers. And here Henry stepped into Cloud's stall where a couple of men awaited him, set the crown carefully on top of a bundle that was lying in the corner, and began to tear the houppelonde from his back.

Bedford arrived a moment later, and when Henry emerged from the folds of crimson velvet was already having his hair swiftly trimmed into a cloth. 'If I did not love you with all my heart - !' he said; and the rest of his comment was lost as he pulled Henry's houppelonde over his head and was fastened into it.  
His tousled head reappeared; the two Plantagenets regarded each other for a moment. Henry grinned at him, then sobered. He picked up the crown, paused for the briefest instant, then lowered it onto his brother's head.

Bedford flinched at the weight of it. Straightened again.

'I do not know how you bear it.'

'It's just for an hour, brother, and it becomes you well. Now, go.' They embraced briefly. Bedford slung Henry's cloak around himself, then mounted Cloud – whose ears flicked in opposite directions, but steadied when Henry slapped his neck and spoke to him reassuringly. Bedford swept out of the stall with a flurry of archers round him. Exeter, still remonstrating with a hangdog Bates, was waiting impatiently at the entrance to the stables, his own horse being led up to him.

Moments later, another archer joined his mates, jogging down the lines of horses, bumping elbows with them, exchanging good-natured insults with them, and turned into a stall almost at the end. Court was already there, saddling up a chestnut with a white blaze on his forehead.  
'Well, Reynard, are you ready to go?' said Henry softly, and Reynard nosed at his hair and whickered. Henry mounted up, following Court back down towards the entrance. The bustle of departure filled the stable; there were men everywhere, English talk, hopefully incomprehensible to the hostlers and adding to their confusion, the clip-clop of hooves, and longbows casually in evidence on every hand.

A magnificent figure on a great grey horse, richly cloaked and hooded, was just leaving the stable. Henry, following Sir Thomas Erpingham now, thought, 'He'll do well. If it comes to the crunch, he'll do well.'

Once out of the palace courtyard, Henry and a dozen men escorted Sir Thomas towards the western gate of the town. There was a brief conference, 'A message for the Earl of Westmoreland,' and the side-gate was opened. They filed under the stone arch, under the murder-holes in the roof, under the machicolations on the further side, and were out onto the high-road running down towards the Abbey.

Henry breathed a little more freely in the cool night air. The party increased its pace to an easy trot. There was a half-moon lighting their way, and stars were visible away from its radiance. A great planet was suspended high in the vault of heaven; not Venus, it was too late in the evening for her. Jupiter or Saturn, then. He had learned thus much in his conversations with John Melton.

They rode briskly, but not fast enough to excite pursuit. Henry found, to his chagrin, that the archers had closed up around him protectively. He swallowed down his inner mutterings, and rode on, Reynard moving easily under him, pleased at the exercise and to have a familiar person on his back. They passed a straggle of cottages and barns, up over a bridge, the water loud beneath and mist curling up towards them, and down its other side onto the river-flats. There was the Abbey, a great dark bulk a quarter-mile down-valley; there was its tithe-barn set at an angle, a little way out in the fields, with a watch-turret climbing up one side of it. The riders swung through a gate, passed a well-tended vineyard, and halted on the cobbled loading area outside the barn doors. They were huge as the gates of Troyes.

Quiet voices; Sir Thomas and the guards, and as Henry walked Reynard up to them, Westmoreland too. One door swung open: they rode straight in, and Henry dismounted at last.

'Sire. Welcome.'

There were men everywhere. In the light of the few lanterns that were burning, Henry could see them, hundreds of them, close packed in rows stretching away into the dark. Most of them were sensibly asleep, or pretending to be so; just a few were alert, and some of these came up to take the horses. Henry gave Reynard a friendly pat on the neck, and let him go.

'Is all quiet?'

'Yes, and we plan to keep it so. When do we leave?'

'First thing in the morning, as soon as Bedford and Exeter join us. Have you a place for us to rest in the meantime?'

'Yes; follow me.'

In the lantern-light he could see, across the barn, a ladder-like stair to a little room, perched high above the void of the barn, with the last of the Abbey's winter stores stacked underneath, where watchmen had been wont to sleep when the barn was full.

They trod up the ladder, paused a moment on a planked landing, then the door of the room was opened by Gloucester. Stephen was there too, and rose as they entered. He looked tired; they were all tired. But he had a sheaf of papers in his hand, as well as Dr Colnet's almanac. Henry vividly remembered the Herald and the notes he was always working on, in the mountains, or outside the tunnel-cave, or with a pair of tiger-cubs curled up beside him, while the retinue went about their business and waited for him to bring them home. Sometimes they had doubted his ability to do that, but they had never doubted that he was doing his uttermost, and now in their turn they could do no less for him.

Westmoreland set the lantern on a rough table. And by the look on Gloucester's face, here was good news at last.

'Well, brother, Master Stephen, what do you have for me?' A quiet question.

'There is a way, we think.'

Henry's body slumped for a moment. His eyes closed briefly. 'God be praised!'

Gloucester was spreading the notes out on the table; they gathered round it, like conspirators by lantern-light, and seated themselves.

'The sign of coming-together is Libra,' said Gloucester without preamble. 'So we will work with that sign. Melton knows where it is; very late in the night, but it's there. We have the right jewels to capture its light, too. Now. We can make a talisman. Allbright is ready at your word; says he can do a better job of it this time. So we need to chose the planet we need to work under. Last time we used the Moon, for home and memory; silver.' His eyes skated down to Henry's hand, where a ring of silver and pearl gleamed. 'But that is not likely to work in our present need. Master Stephen has a list of the other planets, and their metals.'

Stephen passed it across. They were both looking rather uncomfortable; why was that? 'Which do you advise?' he asked.

'Sire, there is one that we feel may serve, but it must be your choice.'

He ran his eye down the sheet.

The Sun. Ruler-ship. Gold. He thought of the token in that most strange land of all that they had visited, with its image of Apollo in his chariot.

The Moon. Home, and memory. Silver.

Mercury. Youth, and travellers, and scholarship; another token that they had found, searching under Montjoy's direction on the windy plains, the tiger-cubs playing nearby.

Venus. True love, copper... He paused, then continued to read.

Mars. War, and carnal love. Iron.

Jupiter. Tin. Expansion; empire.

Saturn. Lead. Boundaries, limitations. Duty.

He looked up. 'Tell Allbright to use copper for the talisman. And should it be of help, there is this, too.'

He drew a breath, and laid before him on the table a little packet of silk, and unfolded it. Inside was a lock of hair; dark, with silver strands here and there. That last morning, in the grey dawn, Henry had asked it of Montjoy, who had given it gladly, but refused to take a lock of Henry's in exchange, lest ill chance befall it. Wisely, of course.

He resisted the urge to stroke a finger along it. The other men stirred, and one or two of them sighed slightly. No matter.

'I have the almanac with me, and we can find whatever we may need easily now,' said Gloucester. 'Dr Colnet has fresh store of herbs. If it's humanly possible, we'll have de Rais brought down and Montjoy safe before long.'

The others nodded soberly.

'To it, then,' said Henry.

Gloucester rose, his face serious, nodded, picked up the sheet, and left the little eyrie. There was a stir of movement as everyone else left, just a couple of guards remaining on the landing just outside the door. Henry, looking round, saw there was a pallet ready for him; but before he lay down on it, he thought for a moment, and rummaged in the bag which held his clothes and other gear. He found what he sought; another ring of silver and pearl, and a pendant inscribed with the signs of homecoming; looked at them for a moment, then put them on. Then he said the evening prayer, and lay down to rest.

-x-

The Abbey bell roused him. He made his way to the ladder, the sheer immensity of the barn now clear in the shafts of dawn-light slanting in through the slit windows, its aisles stretching away beneath him giving it the look of a cathedral. Men everywhere were stirring, muttering and groaning; heigh-ho, another day!

Once at ground level, he went out of the barn to look over a grey and dewy landscape. It was chilly; the air was still. But there were birds calling in the vineyard, and sheep bleating; the thin sharp cry of lambs too. He felt a sudden pang of homesickness. It would be no bad thing to see England again.

He went along the outer wall of the barn, past the watch-turret and the horse-lines to the temporary forge, the damp grass brushing under his boots. There was movement inside the open shed, and the glow of a fire. He paused at the opening, for one did not simply march into a smith's realm.

'Allbright,' he said quietly. 'How goes your work?'

The armourer bowed. His face was weary, his clothes sweat-stained; but he seemed satisfied with his night's labours.

'All but done, Sire. We've some signs to incise – my lord of Gloucester will bring them soon - and then it'll be ready.' A small hammer dangled, toy-like, from his hand. 'Come in, if you will, your majesty, and see.' He drew up a stool close by the fire.

Henry took his place by the welcome heat while Allbright lifted a small thing from the table where it had lain amongst a welter of pincers and burins. He lowered it into Henry's waiting palm. A little pair of scales, all in burnished copper with fine chains connecting the tiny pans to the balance.

A movement at the door. Gloucester was coming in, wrapped up warmly in his cloak. 'Good day to you, brother,' Henry greeted him.

'To you also, my lord.' Gloucester unwound his cloak, and proffered a little packet and a sheet of paper. 'We've caught the light that we need in a sapphire. Venus, and Libra's stars. And here's the herb too. Wall-pennywort, a herb of Venus and Libra, says Dr Colnet.' A small bottle with a salve inside it.

Allbright took the sheet and perused it, grunting now and then. 'Simple enough, my lords. I can be done in half an hour.'

And thus dismissed, the brothers went out again into the dawn light.  
-x-

When Allbright had done, he brought the scales to the watchman's room, where Henry had called Stephen and Gloucester. The rest of the nobles were busy around the barn.

Sitting at his table, Henry undid the scrap of paper with the lock of dark hair within. He laid it in one of the little pans – now engraved with a rose, for Venus and for himself. Then he drew his dagger, and taking a lock of his own hair between thumb and forefinger, sliced it off.

Gloucester stirred uneasily, but Henry simply said, 'I have my hair trimmed every month, brother, there's no need to look like that,' and dropped the lock into the other pan. Then he picked up the scales by the pivot, and held it lightly.

He did not show in his face how desperate a throw this was for him. That damned hourglass, the key to Tommaso's spell, had been horrible for him to touch, and though this new talisman was a product of his own love and longing, some of the dread still lingered. And suppose it did not work at all? They were the veriest children in this craft, and though he and Stephen, king and priest, had between them had a power that was surely denied to Tommaso and de Rais, they had not a hundredth of the knowledge. So he held the scales, in hope and apprehension, and waited.

The noises of the camp seemed to drop away. His breathing rasped loud to him; he could feel his chest rising and falling, and he heard the faint rustle of his clothes as it did so. The scales shifted and seemed to pull lightly at him, as if leading him by the hand. A familiar, gentle touch, not at all like the writhings of the hourglass as it tried to escape him. 'Ah,' he whispered, and smiled. 'That way,' he murmured, pointing; 'he's that way.'  
-x-

Montjoy woke to a nightmare; bound and bundled into a cramped space, lying on unforgiving boards. Chests and sacks hemmed him in. His prison jounced, lurched, setting off the nausea from which sleep had protected him. He groaned a little in his misery. He was in a cart on rough roads, for there was the noise of wheels, and of hooves.

He tried to move, to ease his hurts, but stilled as the nausea surged up and sweat broke out all over his body.

He tried to sink down into sleep again, hoping that he could find solace there in the memory of a touch that even in his dark dreams had comforted him.

-x-

Henry opened his eyes again. Westwards. Montjoy, his true love. Praise be to Lady Venus, and to God above all.

His friends were still standing in the exact same positions, watching him closely and almost with disbelief. He curled his hand round the scales loosely, lovingly, before laying them down on the table. 'I could feel it,' he said. 'Did you see anything?'

'No – but we saw nothing with the hourglass, either,' said Gloucester. 'You are sure?'

'Yes.' Henry realised he was still smiling, and rearranged his features to present a more solemn front. 'That was Montjoy, no question of it.'

'Did he... speak to you?'

'No. I could feel his presence, that's all; faint and far away, but it was him.' He re-wrapped Montjoy's hair; tore off a square of paper from a map and folded his own sandy lock inside, before giving them to Allbright to be incorporated into the talisman. 'So, where's west of here?' He twisted the map briskly round, and traced a line across France. 'Paris,' he said.

'That's a little north of west,' said Gloucester, squinting at the map upside-down. 'But a little to the south of it...'

'Fontainebleau,' said Henry, 'where Tommaso had his workshop. Gentlemen, when Bedford and Exeter arrive, we must be on our way. And in the meantime' – standing up - 'I should go to the Abbey, and give my duty to God.'

-x-

The great dim building accommodated them with even greater ease than had the tithe-barn; standing inconspicuously among his men, he took comfort in the familiar plainsong of the monks. Then the congregation dispersed, the monks to their morning duties and the soldiers to their horses. Unobtrusively, their baggage was being packed up.

Where were his brother and his uncle?

The bells in Troyes had fallen silent too, and morning smoke hovered above the town, lying in grey, shifting layers at tree-top height, partly obscuring the spires of the cathedral and its sister churches. Bedford was in there somewhere, holding the fort for his brother. He must come soon, or all their plans were overset.

Henry stopped by the horse-lines to greet Reynard, remembering many times in the past when he'd done the same – except that then Cloud had been there too. Court looked up from where he was brushing his own horse – 'I'll see to him, Sire, if it please you.' Henry acknowledged this with a smile before glancing back at the city.

Such a peaceful scene. No commotion of the kind which might be expected if his uncle were being held against his will.

He went in to break his fast with his kinsmen, and to put on his royal surcoat; one way or another he'd need to wear his arms soon. He shrugged on a nondescript cloak over all.

'We're all but ready to go,' said Westmoreland. 'Packed, armed, the men under strict orders not to stray. But if Bedford delays any longer we'll have to send a messenger...'

A man dashed into the barn. 'Sire, my lords – they're on their way!'

A scramble for the door, and there beyond the vineyard, beyond the bridge, coming out of the town a mile away was a riding of a score or more of men with Exeter at their head and pennons a-flutter. There was a grey horse among them, and Henry sagged very slightly in relief.

Then he braced up again. 'Pass the order. Be ready to be off. Do not be obvious about it.' And eight hundred men became as busy and quiet as ants.

He tried the talisman again. West. He stared that way, trying to see so far ahead that he could discern more figures on horseback – or a fastness or prison where hostages might be held – and could not, of course, for all that the talisman assured him that somewhere in that direction was his true love. Montjoy.

-x-

Bedford, unfamiliar in a squire's garb and with short hair, now somehow darkened, dismounted from Cloud. He was visibly annoyed. It was not often that that happened.

'She would come, Sire. I could not prevent her without more noise about it than we wanted.'

Henry followed the jerk of his chin, and there among the riders, dressed for riding, was Christine de Pisan herself.

She met his startled gaze with a correct but distant inclination of the head, before dismounting to speak with her companions – another woman, similarly attired, and, he was relieved to see, a manservant who was taking her horse's reins.

Henry turned back to his brother, and mutely invited an explanation.

'She arrived at our lodging at daybreak; said she'd seen something as she left the banquet. Two horses she knew, each with the wrong rider, or so she thought. So she asked a discreet question or two, and found that squads of Englishmen had been leaving the city by different gates. And so she came to me, and threatened that all hell would break loose unless we took her with us. And short of a noisy set-to, I had no choice but to let her have her way.'

'And thus your delay. Well, you made the right decision, and if she faced down you and our uncle together, she's got the stomach for what we must do now. For I cannot let her go back to Troyes. Have Sir Thomas set Bates and his squad to escort her for now.'

'I think she'd follow us if you tried to send her back.' Bedford dismissed her from his mind. 'So you're determined to do this?'

That was as close as anyone ever came to questioning Henry's decisions, and he gave Bedford a look of half-surprise, half-query. He'd always brought them safe through. And he was indeed determined to do this, and oddly enough, it was Christine de Pisan's presence that had finally decided him. A woman, and of such intellect, so convinced that something was wrong that she flew in the face of all convention and threw in her lot with her country's conqueror – he was right to smell conspiracy! He glanced one more time at Troyes, and now its high walls took on the aspect of a trap.

So he called over the rest of his kinsmen to a corner by a buttress of the barn, and said quietly, 'This is how I see matters now. If anyone can give a different account, I ask that you do so.

'I think it possible Tommaso did not know the source of de Rais' power, and his disappearance would seem to confirm this. Maybe he wanted nothing more to do with de Rais, and simply made himself scarce. Christine and her family were protected by her position at court. But when we returned, de Rais had to make one last throw. He took Christine's children thinking to control Tommaso thus; and somehow he knew of Montjoy's part in our return. So Montjoy was taken too, lest he become a threat, a rival, or for other reasons. Now de Rais is taking them all to Fontainebleau, and if need be will no doubt move on to a place where he can hide. If we tire of the hunt, no doubt he will come forth again, and continue his evil works in France, and plot against us too, I do not doubt.'

'How long has he been gone?' Exeter, ever practical, was looking towards the horse-lines.

'I do not know. Maybe no more than a couple of days. But we have an advantage he cannot guess at; we can follow Montjoy,' and he touched the breast of his cote where the little scales were stowed safely away.

Exeter looked as though he would like to say something, but Henry continued, 'Do we wish to be committed to rule over a realm of sorceries? We barely survived the journey through the past; I've no desire to repeat that experience.' There was a nodding of heads around him, from everyone who had been on that fantastical journey. 'We will find de Rais, and destroy him, and find Christine's children, and win Tommaso to our cause. We may lose what we gained in France, but we will gain safety for England, and that must always take precedence. Now, gentlemen, to horse. We have a long ride ahead of us.'

In the confusion as the group dispersed and mounted up, Exeter and Westmoreland appeared, as if by chance, close at his side.

'Sire, is there no way we can save the treaty? To lose all that we've gained, to cast away that great victory...' Exeter, frowning, was speaking in an undertone; Westmoreland was tense and worried.

'We must deal with de Rais. If one of the French nobles makes alliance with him... Do you think the Duke of Orléans would not join forces with him?' Orléans, who had stood silent and grim, all in black, at the signing of the treaty, had almost looked ready to contemplate such a thing. 'Or even Burgundy if he could see advantage for himself?'

'Then we must send messages to all the garrisons in Normandy, to prepare for evacuation,' said Exeter heavily. 'It will take time to do that.'

Henry paused with his hand on Cloud's bridle. To order an evacuation would be a momentous decision; thousands of men and their supplies to be got safe back across the Channel. The sheer magnitude of what he was planning had not occurred to him until this moment. He saw himself suddenly through others' eyes, as a man so besotted by an illicit love that he would abandon an empire for its sake. A new Mark Antony. Utterly ridiculous, in fact.

For an instant, his world reeled; he imagined himself calling out the order to turn back to Troyes, to ride to the city and order betrothal and wedding to take place as if nothing had happened. His archers would face down the crowds and the French nobility; people would mutter, and look askance, but they would do his bidding. He would stand at the altar with the Valois Princess. He would continue his conquest of France, year upon year of campaigns. He would be King of France in the end. Maybe, in the fullness of time, he could lead a crusade.

Montjoy would die, of course. Christine's children, too. De Rais would continue his evil practices unchecked. He would find other sorcerers to aid him. The memory of the hourglass, crawling in his hand, cried out again in Henry's mind.

'We'll send the messages, then,' he said. 'Everything to be put in train, quietly. Tell them to have ships made ready at the Normandy ports. We will retire in good order. And' – he paused, and thought – 'we must send word to Jean of Brittany. Promise him help to set up his own princedom, if that's what he wishes. Make it clear his interests lie with us.' If he had Brittany with him on one side, and Burgundy poised on the other, they might win through yet.

Exeter looked at him grimly. 'This is the end of all you've worked for.' Westmoreland was equally serious at his side.

'Yes. But I'm doing God's work now, because I must, Uncle: let us not forget it.' And he turned back to Cloud, and mounted. Around him the men of the little army were doing the same. Christine, at the edge of the crowd, stood watching, not quite sure yet what was happening.

'Send out the letters,' Henry said to Westmoreland.

Westmoreland spoke to one of his squires, and the lad ran into the barn and returned with a packet of letters. One to the Abbé. One to Burgundy. One to King Charles. Nothing specific; thanks for their lodging to the Abbé; protestations of friendship to the other two, and reference to an unspecified threat; fond regards to the fair princess, and regret that the formal betrothal would be delayed. Gifts of rare jewels to them all.

The young man paused for a heartbeat, giving him one last moment to reconsider, but at Henry's impatient nod, took his horse at a gallop down the track past the vineyard to the Abbey gatehouse.

And Henry turned away, threw off his cloak, and with the lions and lilies bright upon him, swung up onto Cloud's back. The soldiers milling about outside the barn turned to him as one man.

'Up, my friends!' he called. 'To horse! We ride on the instant! There's plotting and treachery, somewhere in the west. We'll find it and defeat it, I have no doubt! For we've defeated many a plot in our time, and proved equal to the task, you and I.' His hand swept out to include them all. 'For we do God's work now, never doubt it! Mount up, and follow!'

His nobles were already in the saddle, his archers were catching up their packs and saddlebags, and longbows, longbows like a forest all around. He caught a brief glimpse of Christine's astonished face before she scrambled back on her horse, urging her companions to do likewise. The squire came tearing back along the track.

And the army was under way, Henry at its head, and squad by squad they followed, hundreds upon hundreds of men, the roar of hoof-beats following at his back; monks running from the Abbey to watch them go, labourers and herdsmen turning amazed from their tasks; and the army of the English, riding fast enough even to outpace rumour, left Troyes far behind.

If he was wrong, thought Henry, he was truly doomed. If he was right and did nothing, he was doomed also. He rode on; and in the circumstances it was strange how light his heart was.

-x-

After a day's ride a group of archers went ahead with a messenger, north-west towards the garrisons in Normandy, and another to the court of Jean of Brittany, under the command of Bedford. His brother had not liked this assignment at all, but Henry had represented to him, in no uncertain terms, that he was the only man for the job. 'I need someone who can convince Jean how seriously I take this; and truthfully, if I fall in this battle, England will need you. Clarence is too impulsive to rule well without your help,' and this was so self-evidently true that Bedford simply nodded, unable to speak; but he gripped Henry's hand before calling up his guards and turning away towards Rennes, where Jean had last been heard of.

The remainder of the army, still many hundreds strong, swept onwards across country with all the speed of a chevauchée, and indeed Henry's grandfather had cut a bloody swathe through this part of France almost half a century before. Henry had no ambitions to repeat John of Gaunt's destruction. He gave orders that everything they took should be paid for, and generously. He wanted no resentment at his back. That would help their cause not at all.

On the second day of their ride they climbed into lightly wooded uplands, and came to a ford over a stream that hurried down to the Seine. Henry, with Exeter and the vanguard, splashed across, and he and his uncle took up position on the lip of the little valley; watched over their army as it crossed in its turn. The artillerymen were having trouble with one of the light cannon, its gun-carriage being lodged fast, it seemed, with a wheel between two stones.

Henry remembered how they had wrestled with the carts on their journey through the past, up steep slopes, gasping for air that wasn't quite adequate, or on a river of rock with a comet searing the sky above. But the gunners didn't even curse, but drafted extra horses, took long levers, and applied them to the wheel. All in a day's work to them.

And Exeter took his chance. Henry had been waiting for this, the private talk for which there had been no time before; best to get it over with. So when Exeter brought his bay horse alongside Cloud, with serious face, Henry simply glanced at him and said, 'Well, Uncle?'

'Sire, I am your councillor, and I must speak again of Troyes.'

Here it was, the lecture that he had been expecting since he had left the city the morning before, left the nobility of France and Burgundy, left promised crown and promised bride, everything that he had fought for, and set out to pursue Gilles de Rais across half France. He nodded. 'Say your piece, Uncle.'

Exeter drew a breath. 'Leave me to carry on the chase. Go back to Troyes. Claim your rights. The treaty's signed; all you need do is marry the Princess. Wed her, bed her, and maybe get an heir for England. You can be on your way to Fontainebleau within a week, with your queen if need be.'

'I had thought you would tell me to abandon the chase and forget de Rais - and Montjoy.'

'Nephew, I know you too well – and Montjoy is my friend too. But the prize is within your grasp; all that we fought for, all that your men have died for. I beg you, do not let it slip through your fingers now.'

'You say you know me? Why then do you say I should leave you to fight my battles for me? Uncle, I cannot.' He kept his voice down low. His guards, a little way down the slope, would be deaf to all that was said, but there was no need to strain their loyalty.

'There's another reason why you cannot, is there not, my lord?' Exeter was grimly determined to do his duty.

'Would you have me abandon him?' A cold response.

'You have parted once already, at his wish. You are a king. Your duty is to your people. He knows that.'

'And the game has changed. We destroyed a spell of great power. Tommaso has vanished. But de Rais may be an even greater threat. He may have Tommaso. I believe we have to abandon France, let everything go that we have gained, and retreat to England. That, perhaps, we can defend.'

Exeter stared at him in disbelief. 'It is not like you to give up so easily. Have you fallen under a spell yourself?'

'And it is not like you to refuse to face facts. De Rais is a threat while he's at large. Not just to us, to all of Christendom. I have a larger duty even than to England. I'll be needed for this task – oh, I do not doubt your ability to conduct a pursuit in the normal run of things. But I am an anointed king. Do you not remember the hourglass? I know how it was made, Uncle. Do you want me to tell you?' Henry remembered it still, the visions it had sent him; they crawled in his mind in the night sometimes. Montjoy had driven them away.

A pause. Below them, the work of freeing the gun-carriage went on. 'Tell me,' said Exeter.

Henry swallowed. 'There were children. The hourglass was full of their pain and de Rais' pleasure. That was what I fought, back there in the land of the sail-backs. That was what felled me to the ground.' For a moment he was silent, then forced himself on. 'I was a child hostage myself. You know that. So were my brothers and sisters. Richard smiled, and was halfway to making us love him. I knew even then what could have happened, to any of us, to all of us. Philippa was just four years old. Maybe he could have bedded me willing in time, if he had threatened them. I do not know. And then, at Harfleur... do you remember what I said to the Governor, when the last assault failed?'

'Yes. Yes, I do, nephew. And I remember that no such deeds were carried out.'

'But now it's time to make reparation for that threat. So you see, uncle, it is not just for Montjoy's sake that I stay here. I must bring de Rais down, and I will do it though it cost me my life, for maybe my soul depends upon it.'

Exeter reached out all at once, and gripped his arm, hard. 'This... Nephew, you've carried this burden alone, all these years?'

'God has carried it too. But I swore, from the moment that I was freed, that I would never be helpless again. If I am a warrior-king, if I am a conqueror, that is why. And that's why I want my Herald, safe by my side; and that's why I let him go. Uncle, do you have any more questions? Anything more to say to me?'

'No. Nothing more. Save that I am yours to command.'

'Then my command is that you aid me with all your power, and if I should fall, to carry on my work.' That perhaps was too heavy a note on which to end the conversation. 'And for now: to aid them,' and he pointed at the artillerymen. Almost all the army was across the ford now, winding up the bank below them, but the gun-carriage still stood like a little island in the stream of horsemen. 'That carriage looks stuck fast.'

Exeter, with one last, serious look, went. And Henry sat back in the saddle, feeling unexpectedly exhausted.  
-x-

Then there were another two days of hard riding; luckily the weather favoured them and the roads were passable.

No-one who had marched with Henry on the Agincourt campaign could doubt his determination to enforce discipline, and every man was a very model of Christian soldiery. And for this reason, perhaps, now and then someone would speak to them - or more likely to Christine de Pisan or her cousin Emma, for it was usually a woman who came forward.

'There are more children missing, your majesty,' Christine said to him on the third evening, as he made his way round the camp-fires – a bigger task than it had been on the journey through the past, but still he spoke to some of the men, at least, every night.

'How many? Where?'

'Two that I know of, in the villages we went through today. Both under ten years old.' Her face was drawn with worry.

Seeing a mother's anxiety thus renewed made him uneasy. 'Take note of them, madame, and tell any who ask that we will search for them.'

Neither he nor she gave voice to their thought, that these children were not simply lost, but had perforce joined her own, and Montjoy, wherever they were being taken.

'That I can do, your majesty. It will be a comfort to their parents.' On that note of accord they parted.

He did not doubt that they had been taken by de Rais. And the next day, when gently questioned by Christine, a woman with a face full of worry replied, 'Yes, a riding went past yesterday morning. A young lordling, and his men. All Frenchmen. Yes, there was a man taller than most in their midst; now I come to think of it, he did not look happy to be there.'

Henry kept his face under strict control, but his heart bounded up; my herald, alive!

Every evening now, when Venus was at her height, he brought out the little copper scales, and waited for that very faintest of tugs that he felt in his heart as much as on his fingers; though now they were following the trail of de Rais and his men, and the rumours of lost children, as much as the delicate touch of the talisman.

-x-

'He'll guess we're on his trail,' said Exeter next evening, as the camp was being set up around them. They were on a shelving hillside, some way above a river, and he looked out across the short turf. There, the flocks that had been peaceably grazing were hurrying towards a village where a tocsin was ringing. 'He can't fail to know it. And though the Herald should be safe enough, for he'll be kept as hostage, these children that have been stolen along the way... He'll have a use for them.'

'We must keep alert for traps such as we fell into at Bayeux, yes,' replied Henry. 'Though if Tommaso has evaded him, we need not be too afraid. I think de Rais has not the skill to set another such spell on us. Gloucester and Stephen, and Christine too, can perhaps match de Rais' knowledge though not Tommaso's; they must be our safeguards in that respect.'

'What is your plan, when you find de Rais?' The question was respectfully asked, but it was a reminder that the real battle was not even in sight yet.

This question had vexed Henry in all the days and nights of their riding. Should they bring him to battle, or let him think he could treat with them, or challenge him directly with the authority of the Church? Nor could they waste much time over it, for the speed of their passage had been their best defence so far, but they were deep into French territory now.

'We must find him. Then we may bring him to battle, and suddenly,' he replied, and Exeter nodded, respectful but unconvinced, and withdrew.  
-x-

The next morning, having crossed the river, they were into the forest of Fontainebleau; oak and stately beech, and butterfly-filled glades covered with bracken and short grass where the deer grazed. It was an odd place; a royal hunting preserve, all well and good, like many a hunting-chase in England that he'd had so little time to visit. But in amongst the aisles of trees were looming boulders, worn into strange shapes; as he rode past this lopsided tower or that, he was reminded of the tors of Dartmoor, but these were all the more menacing for appearing so suddenly out of the trees.

The main body of his army, formed into a column of four abreast, followed him, the horses stirring up buzzing flies from the bracken. Every so often, Henry heard someone mutter a short prayer, but for the most part they rode in silence.

They were coming close now, he was sure of it. The talisman pulled at his fingers when he held it. The castle of Fontainebleau was just a few miles away. It seemed inevitable that the last act in this wild adventure must be played out in the very place where Tommaso had cast his spell.

They halted at midday in the ruins of what looked like an abandoned religious house, for there were tumbledown walls in the familiar pattern of church, cloister and outbuildings. Henry sent scouts forward under Richard Calder, the Cheshire huntsman, and he himself waited in the corner of the old herb-garden, with its clumps of rosemary and bay. Here he ate a scratch meal, finishing with stewed plums from the orchard – untended as the trees were, the fruit was still sweet.

'It's as we feared, Sire,' said Richard, on his return. 'The castle's not big – it's more of an overgrown hunting-lodge, so there's no moat, God be praised! But it's occupied, and not by King Charles' men – at least, there's no royal standard, nor any that I recognised. But the gates are closed and there are men on the battlements.'

'Standards, you say? Whose? No, wait, you can tell Blanchlyverer later. Sketch me out this hunting-lodge.'

Calder took the pen that Gloucester had ready, and drew, with a few short strokes, the castle of Fontainebleau that they must assault. Henry frowned down at the map; a small castle, rather old-fashioned in outline, with a gatehouse and bailey. Certainly not beyond Henry's capacity to take with the forces at his disposal – if it were not for the hostages held within.

And yet, they must free them now, or they'd be held forever. De Rais would never give them up willingly.

'Go get some food, Calder, you and your men. I'll send for you when we need you.'

The debate with his commanders was still going back and forth when Gloucester touched his arm and pointed across the herb-garden. There, escorted by Sergeant Bates, with as non-committal an expression on his face as Henry had ever seen, was Christine, picking her way towards them between the clumps of tough herbs.

She halted before them, and made the barest curtsey; they acknowledged it.

'Well, madame? Do you have something to tell us about Fontainebleau?' It was possible, and therefore Henry curbed his impatience. She might have visited it with her father.

'I have more than that, your majesty. I have keys.' And she produced them, to an outraged silence.

Exeter, with an aspect of thunder, stood, tramped over, and took the ring from her with little ceremony, glancing at it briefly before passing it across to Henry. Two iron keys, not big enough for the main gates, to be sure, but suited to smaller doors.

'Explain, madame,' said Henry, keeping his voice as neutral as he could. Exeter's hand twitched slightly towards his sword-hilt and Henry could hardly blame him. But he suppressed his own thoughts of murder, and waited.

'My father gave me a key to his workshop, years ago,' she said tiredly. 'There's one for a postern gate, too. He'd come out here sometimes, for the herbs,' and she gestured at the overgrown garden. 'It was of no moment to the castellan. Fontainebleau was never a stronghold of the realm, and when the king was here, he was well-guarded. But my father wanted me to have access to his workshop. He wanted me to be educated, and educate me he did, though my inclination took me more towards philosophy and writing than astrology. Well, no matter; that's the key to the postern by the southern tower,' and she pointed to the larger of the two. 'You may find it useful.'

Four or five Englishmen drew breath to snarl 'Useful!' but Henry silenced them with a raised hand. 'You would have done better to tell us of this days ago.'

'Maybe. But I hoped that I could creep into the castle secretly and free my children without a full-scale assault. I'd no wish to give him the chance to harm them while you manoeuvred before the walls, you understand me? But if the castle's strongly held, I can do no creeping-in. There are the keys. Use them well, King Henry.' She curtseyed again, and turned to go.

'Wait, madame. You came with us with your plan already in mind?'

'Yes,' she said simply. 'It was my quickest way to find them – and I thought it likely that the road would lead to Fontainebleau.'

Henry's nobles were now looking at her with an rancour which Henry privately echoed. To make use of a king and his army thus..!

'You may keep me under guard,' she added. 'This is no trap. I want Marie and Jean safe. You want to bring de Rais down. Therefore our wishes coincide. Bring them to me safely, and I'll be your friend forever. If they're harmed - ' and here her assurance deserted her. She looked down at her feet, and passed her hand swiftly across her eyes. 'Well. I'll have to trust you to make sure they're not harmed.'

'They will not be, if I can prevent it,' stated Henry. 'You will pardon me if I say I wish you'd told me of this earlier. But for now, we'll take your keys, and you may tell us what you remember of the castle. And you'll be kept under guard, never doubt it, you and Emma and your servant.'

She inclined her head with a dignity which matched Montjoy's own, and at his gesture, seated herself on a fallen bock of stone, and began to make additions to the sketch-map which Calder had drawn for them.  
-x-

Late that evening, Henry and his personal retinue rode ahead through the forest, which was busy with moths and with the hunting-cries of owls. These were the men who had battled their way through the past with him, the men who owed their lives to Montjoy. They had less fear of any sorcerer than other men, and a powerful desire for revenge.

So they filed, squad by squad, through the trees, and picked their way north towards the château, made a marching-camp, and waited while their commanders made their plans; and at the end of that discussion, Henry said, 'Send Bates to me now.'

When the north-countryman arrived at his tent, his bow as always to hand, Henry said, 'Sergeant, you and your squad will form the rescue party for the Herald. You and they are excused all other duties; stand ready to go whenever and however we find him.'

'We'll do that gladly, Sire,' said Bates quietly; things had become a little informal between the members of the retinue, even the lowest, and their King. They had been through fire and flood and portent together. A bond had formed that could not be broken. 'John Melton says he's found nearly all the planets; still looking for Mercury, of course, but he hasn't given up yet. He's found a good tree to climb to take his sights.'

Henry half-laughed. 'I have a whole army of sorcerers to bring against de Rais! Tell Melton I thank him.'

'I will, Sire. And the lads have been hard at practice this afternoon; your majesty will not want for marksmen.' He paused, looked carefully at Henry for a moment, and ventured, 'Have no fear, Sire. The Herald brought us home. We'll do the same for him.'

'I thank you, John Bates.' Henry paused a moment; he could say no more, and nodded dismissal. Bates bowed, and left the tent; and Henry subsided onto his camp-bed, put his head in his hands, and stayed like that for a while. Then he knelt, and prayed; he had nothing but a suffering heart to offer his Lord, a heart full of forbidden love; but he was as God had made him, and perhaps He would understand.

-x-

And thus reminded, though truly God was never far from his thoughts, he sent for Stephen, to give him absolution. It was full dark now; the air mild and soft under the trees; night-sounds all around, with the croak of frogs down by a small stream, and the quiet cry of an owl a little way off. Stephen came in through the tent-flap, and in the light of a shuttered lantern they looked at each other.

'Well, my confessor?'

'You already know all that I should say, my lord.'

'Yes. And you do not say it.'

'I could listen, and prescribe penances, and you would do them, humbly and with the love of God in your heart. And they would not change your nature. So I say this: the Church teaches that man and wife should love each other; and if you cannot love the princess, it would be a sin against God to marry her. Maybe He has brought you to this point that you should do His work against this de Rais. Free the children, and send him to his trial. Your sin with Montjoy is slight by comparison.'

'Thank-you, Stephen.'

'Thank God's love, not me. You hold Him in honour, whatever necessity drives you to do, and there's many a prince who could not say the same. And Montjoy; he is my friend too, and a truer man never breathed.'

'Nor yet a braver.' Henry stood, and stretched; his shoulders ached. 'We'll have him out of there, and any who are held captive with him; Christine's children, and the others who are missing. Are you ready to face what we may find in that castle?'

'No. But we must to the task; there's no-one else to do it. I'll pray with you now, if you wish it.'

'I do. Thank-you, Stephen.'

They knelt together, and Stephen whispered the prayer; Henry beside him bowed his head over his clasped hands and felt a little comfort steal into his heart at the old familiar words. So many down the ages had spoken them in time of trouble, and God had listened as He was surely listening now.

They rose at the end of the prayer, and Stephen said severely, 'Go to your rest now, your majesty; you've work to do soon.'

'I will soon, Stephen. Thank-you.' And Stephen left him, and Henry sighed a little and took to his camp-bed for a few hours.  
-x-

Then he called for his armourer, and dressed ready for battle; sword, and boots, and his usual light armour, and his surcoat over all.

In some ways it was like the preparations for so many night attacks he'd conducted before; the quiet movement of soldiers and horses outside the tent-flap, of commanders counting off their men, and tension winding up tight as a crossbow string. There was Stephen, his black garments making him all but invisible in the night, murmuring an absolution. In contrast, away on his right the gunners were busy at their emplacement; more men with axes were standing by to run in after the guns had fired. And across a cleared space, the château of Fontainebleau waited.

They were all in position now; Henry just inside the cover of the forest at the head of his squads with Westmoreland beside him, peering towards the postern; Exeter in charge of the axe-men; Gloucester, unhappy but resigned, with Stephen towards the rear, and the little party of Frenchwomen with the baggage where they could be guarded.

It was deepest night. The moon was in its last quarter now, partly obscured by clouds, and a few faint stars peeped here and there. But there had been no fires in the camp, and all their eyes were accustomed to the dark. Nor was there a sound from his men; only silence, even more strictly enforced than on the night before Agincourt. And they were all, from the king down, as frightened as they had been on that night.

No point waiting any longer. Henry rose to his feet with a murmur to Bates; a runner went off to Exeter, and silent as ghosts, Henry and his men slipped out from the shelter of the forest, and made their way fast across the enfilade, towards the walls and towers of Fontainebleau.  
-x-

Over to their right there was an explosion. Fire billowed up; the thump of the blast struck his ears. A confusion of shouts, curses and orders. Beyond it, higher-pitched screams, fear rather than anger.

Bates was at the postern, fighting with the keys; was the lock stiff, the door bolted on the other side? He got the door open at last. Henry raised his shield, and ran past him. Behind him were his men, scrambling fast and silently to follow.

Another explosion. Henry was under the archway, ducking his head, and into the bailey. A figure loomed up before him, swinging an arm. Henry savagely swung his own sword, felt it bite home, and the body fell away before him. Two more men, both yelling. An arrow stopped one in his tracks. Westmoreland dealt with the other.

Now the whole squad was through the postern and the arrows flew in earnest. A guard fell from the wall-walk, the body thumping loud and final onto the ground. Two more men, rushing from a tower doorway, were down.

Crossbow bolts hissed viciously among them; someone screamed behind him. First casualty. No time to check who it was. He charged across the bailey before the crossbowmen had time to reload. Another violent roar at the gatehouse, rolling flames, the smell of gunpowder, good! Now they were almost at the keep. A howl of warning behind; one of his light cannon was already lined up. Figures surged around it.

Bates and his men were guarding his back, picking off defenders as they saw them. Men were shouting inside the keep. The cannon bellowed, and blasted the studded doors to planks and flying splinters. Everyone ducked; arrows sped past him and he was into the gap, yelling as he went. Into one of the doors within, near tripping over the sill. Two men blocked the passageway before him. Their hearts were not in the defence, they gave way before him.

His men were filling up the warren of passageways around the entrance now. There was a thumping of feet above him, shouts and screams all around. Someone was smashing the machinery of the portcullis by the sound of it. They were through and into the keep proper.

Cries of 'St George!' and 'King Harry!' behind him. Across the bailey the gatehouse had fallen, and Exeter’s voice blared out across the courtyard. 'On, lads, we'll miss all the fun!' Savage laughter and cheers.

The copper scales, still carried under his surcoat, reminded him of why they had come to this place. No time to take them out now and follow them; all they could do was storm the keep and deal with what they found there. So he left the wall-chambers for the Great Hall. There were doors in each corner, leading to stairs no doubt. He paused for a moment, taking in the scene in the flickering torchlight. There was Gloucester, come in with the second wave, fair hair dishevelled, wild-eyed. 'Up!' Henry ordered, gesturing at one of the doors, and Gloucester nodded, gathered his men around him, and was gone.

'Sergeant Bates!'

'Here, Sire.'

'Find the stairs to the dungeon.' Another blast, this time from one of the corner towers of the curtain-wall by the sound of it. De Rais would never use this castle again, whatever happened. The men of the squad, fired up and beyond fear, dashed across the room, a group to each of the doors, a-bristle with weapons, a force unstoppable. Henry waited, panting, in the middle of the hall. He'd lost his shield somewhere.

A commotion heralded the arrival of Exeter, face blackened, eyes and teeth flashing white; 'Sire! Have you found him?'

There was only one him as far as Henry was concerned, but he presumed Exeter did not mean Montjoy. 'We're searching now. Gloucester's gone up, looking for the tower workroom. Bates and his men are into the basement - ' he paused as a group of defenders burst into the hall, their hands raised high, prodded by Melton with a pikestaff, and a few other Englishmen similarly armed behind him.

'Get them out into the courtyard, Melton!' It was overrun with his men now, their cheers firing up his blood still further. 'Don't let them be killed if you can help it!' Maybe they would be useful later on. Feet pounded across the floor of the room above, then a scream and a sliding thud. 'The gatehouse, Uncle, what of it?'

'Gone. Rubble. They're starting on the curtain-wall now.'

'You found no-one inside it?'

'No, we checked. A dozen defenders, that's all, no-one we know. Some are dead, some saw reason.'

'Good.' Henry was looking this way and that, waiting for the word that would send him to the upper floors of the keep or to the cellars. Should he take the talisman out now? But he would never feel that faint tug at his fingers in all the tumult around him. Trust in his men, that was all he could do.

And now one of them came hurtling down a spiral stair; Richard Calder. 'This way!' he shouted without ceremony, and without ceremony Henry was after him, with Exeter cursing at his back.

'You've found him?' he asked Calder.

'No. But there's a locked door at the top!'

-x-

His uncle barged ahead of him, sans apology, on the second landing. Henry yelled in anger and frustration and fairly shoved him up the stairs. Behind him, baying like hounds, his soldiers were hot on his heels. The tower stair was packed full of snarling, sweating humanity.

Exeter abruptly stopped. There was a door in the stair wall, lit by the guttering light of Bates' torch. 'The key!' It was passed up to him, but the door was barred on the other side. He didn't waste a moment; 'Get back! Give me room!' and they crowded back a pace or two.

A panting hush. Raised voices on the other side of the door. Then Exeter hurled himself against it, like a human battering-ram. On the fourth assault it lurched and gave way. Henry growled with impatience. Exeter forced it wider open, the wood splintering and cracking. Henry and his soldiers charged through it, an unstoppable flood, and he took in the scene before him in a raking glance.

They were in a round room, with work-benches covered in instruments of learning. There was a throne-like chair. Stars painted on the ceiling. Rush mats shoved back, and what looked like a Zodiac design on the floor. And in the centre of the room, a little group of people. Montjoy – oh God, at last, Montjoy! - standing stiff and straight with tension, a little boy at his side. Hastening towards him, a black-haired youth – it could only be Gilles de Rais - holding the arm of a young girl. In the surprise of their attack, Montjoy whirled suddenly, and sent the little boy sprawling towards one side, to a man in a scholar's gown. Tommaso, for sure.

Henry locked eyes with Montjoy for a brief second. Then there was a howl behind him.

'Harm her and I’ll kill you!' Christine had raced up the staircase (how had she got there?) and now she shoved Exeter aside – the big man actually staggered – and braced herself to spring out onto the Zodiac floor. But de Rais took a tighter hold of the girl, and now he had a knife at her throat. She tried to shrink away, her eyes wide, but made never a sound.

'Do as I say, old man!' shouted de Rais.

Tommaso gave Christine an anguished look. His eyes flickered to a workbench. She lunged towards it as he lifted his staff and slammed it down again. There was a roar. The workshop rocked, or so it seemed. A whirlpool of wind – and into it leaped Christine, with something in her hand, and a heartbeat after her was Henry.

The world spun dizzyingly about him, a fierce wind buffeting him. Another translation, worse even than the one that had sent them into the past. That had been a dizzying fall, an impossible distance, but this was a gyre. The shouts of his friends trailed away beneath him. Vast empty spaces, echoing and dark, stretched away all around. He was flung about like a bird in a gale for what seemed like forever; closed his eyes as his guts roiled, his ears sang. Then he forced them open again. Dark. Dark. And all the time his hand stayed locked around the hilt of his sword.

Stars, fierce pinpricks of light, danced before him. They came nearer and nearer, and exploded past him.  
-x-

At length the swirling dark steadied, settled. He was sprawled on his side, dizzy, his sword clattering away, his hands flat on the planks of the floor. Quick footsteps came up to him, paused. 'We've visitors! This one looks like a warrior!'

'Steady! They might be harmless for all we know!'

The footsteps raced away. Henry fought down his nausea and confusion. Where had he been taken, by another spell, sending him off who-knew-where, into what dangers – and without his retinue this time?  
His hand went searching for his sword. It was gone. But the dagger was there on his belt. He did not draw it, not yet, but struggled to his knees, his feet, still braced for action, though the extremity of battle was beginning to leave him.

Other voices were shouting out now. Gasping for breath, he threw swift glances round him, sure that these would only bring him bad news. It was deep twilight; a strangely dark sky, with just a few bright stars overhead; a thin, waning moon. Timbers and ropes. Men, yes – in tunics, barefoot for the most part, and every one of them looked like a hardened warrior.

The timber planking was a deck, Henry realised. He was on a ship. The deck was moving in a slight swell. The ship had a single giant sail, and a pennant above.

No sign of Montjoy, nor of de Rais and the little girl. Nor of any of his men – but he'd darted out in front of them, of course. Foolishly, because now here he was, alone on a ship full of strangers – the first translation without his men.

The fire of battle had left in its place a braced ferocity, like that which he'd felt before Agincourt. He was poised ready to fight; but still kept his hand away from his dagger. He'd fight with words while he could.

There was the sound of someone scrambling to their feet just behind him. He whirled round, but it was only Christine, dishevelled, dazed, and with a grim look to her. She was his only familiar mark in this strange place. He moved back a pace, for solidarity.

Up on the afterdeck, someone was showing the sword to a man in a leather tunic, the man who had given him the order to leave them alone. There were gestures, and quick, low speech. He heard a name. Jason.

'Jason?' Christine muttered, but was looking around the while, for something, someone. Her daughter. There was no little girl to be seen, no Montjoy, no de Rais.

The man in the leather tunic was descending the steps from the poop, and she ran forward to meet him. 'Marie? Have you seen my daughter, sir? Is she here?'

Henry stifled an exclamation and followed her instantly. It meant leaving the scant shelter of the rail, but he could not protect her otherwise.

'Your daughter, lady? No. You're the first visitors we've had in many a long year.'

She made a sound of despair. 'We followed her, she and two men. I must find her,' and she looked about as if to rake her out of the twilit air.

'Steady, madame,' said Henry, and laid a hand on her arm. She seemed ready to search the ship single-handed, and he could not let her do that. 'She's not here – but these gentlemen may be able to help. Sir,' he addressed the man, obviously the captain, 'we're here by some strange spell, in pursuit of my enemy and his hostages. We must find them, and quickly.' So close, they'd come so close. 'In God's name, we entreat your aid!'

'Maybe. If it's witchcraft your enemy has used, and he has a child as hostage, I may be willing to help. But tell us first: who are you?'

'Sir, I am Henry of Monmouth, King of the realms of England and Ireland. This lady is Christine de Pisan. We came here from her father's workshop near Paris.'

Christine was silent now, though she'd been the first to speak. She was gazing around her at the ship, the square sail, the men in their tunics, with a look of dawning comprehension and amazement. She seemed to lose the first edge of her heedless courage, and shrank back a pace or two, close to Henry.

'I’ve been through many a translation before, to my cost, but this is the first time I’ve encountered men,' continued Henry, to show that he was familiar with such magics.

'And women!' came a voice from among the crew. A tall young woman, her hair caught back in a knot. There was another woman, too, shorter, sturdier, every inch the warrior.

'Not now, Atalanta,' said the captain good-naturedly, and Christine drew in another sharp breath. 'Well then, King Henry, Christine de Pisan: I bid you welcome aboard the _Argo_.'  
-x-

They were coping remarkably well, all things considered, thought Henry; he because he had seen wonders enough in the last few months, and Christine because nothing mattered to her at all except finding her daughter.

Henry imagined for a moment the tumult that must be reigning in the tower workshop as his men grappled with the fact of their disappearance. And yet; they had been half-prepared for such a thing, especially those who had suffered sorcery before. His commanders would be bracing themselves to deal with this turn of events; might be forming a plan even now. If so, well and good. If not, they were not the men he thought they were! For his own part, his task was clear, to pursue de Rais wherever he went, and to bring him down – and by God's grace he had the means to do that, in the form of the talisman that had led him to this place.

So after the first surprise and exclamations had been iterated and reiterated, and after Jason had formally named himself, Henry asked, grasping at the shreds of normality and with all the courtesy he could muster, 'We are off the coast of Greece, then, perhaps?'

'No, King Henry. Greece is far behind us. You've come up into the night sky!' That simple statement floored him, and Christine was silent too, all eyes, so after a moment Jason continued, 'We sail the River now.' He gestured at the ocean around them; it looked far too big to be a river. It glowed with seafire, curling in the waves and shimmering in their wake. Henry had never seen that before – but Jason was still speaking. 'Once in a while a traveller will come up from the world below, to sail with us for a time. It is always a great sorcery. The power is almost unattainable. Tell me, how did you come by it?' He looked at them narrowly.

'It was no power of mine. Madame Christine’s father is an astrologer-sorcerer. We were in his workshop, in hot pursuit of my enemy, when the spell swept us up.'

'There is a Zodiac floor,' she put in. 'Marie and her captor, and King Henry's friend, they were further in than us. If I’d been but a moment or two quicker - ' Frustration was plain in her voice.

'Your father's workshop, you said.' A stern reminder. 'Again I ask: how did he get his power?'

'It was not his power that sent us here!' She was past consideration of courtesy, of their position here on this great ship; her face was set, her hands clenched into unwomanly fists.

'King Jason,' said Henry quickly, 'Tommaso da Pisano had the learning. But de Rais – my enemy – had the power. And how he came by it is something I cannot prove – but other children have been stolen.'

'Ah.' Jason drew in a long breath, let it out slowly. 'If children's lives have been taken...' And at last Henry remembered the story of Jason's own children; it was writ plain on his face for a moment.

There was a heavy pause. Then Jason addressed his crew, who had gathered round, listening. 'Well, my friends. I say that we help this king and this woman; take them as far as we may towards the Zodiac. How do you vote?'

'Aye!' The answer was loud and decisive.

Jason grinned fiercely. 'Well said! Tiphys, turn now, back to the north!'

Some of the crew ran to the hatch, jostled there briefly and disappeared below; others to the ropes. 'North it is!” sang out Tiphys, and leaned on the steering-oar. Long oars rattled out from the sides of the ship; paused a moment, dipped and dug into the water. The Argo turned, almost spun, in her own length, pitching as she crossed the grain of the waves. The sail swung round, hanging idle for a moment as it spilled the wind, then re-filled, slanting at an angle to the long hull.

'I think it strange, though,' continued Jason, 'that if you came here by a spell of the Zodiac, you did not go straight there. We're far away here, in the south of the sky.'

'We were just a little too slow getting to the workshop,' said Henry. 'De Rais and our friends were towards the centre of the floor, but we were right at its edge. They'll be there in the Zodiac, I'm sure. But I think there's another reason why we're here on your ship.'

He fished beneath his light armour, and pulled out the silver pendant that he had worn thus for days. It was the pendant that Montjoy had designed, long ago in the land of the sail-backs, and it was made in the form of a ship. This ship, in fact. The Argo, with the star Canopus picked out with a diamond.

He handed it to Jason, who inspected it gravely while Henry explained, 'Montjoy had it made for us. It helped us to come home from the past.'

Jason's face broke into a smile. 'Why, that's a beautiful thing!' He looked to Henry for permission, and passed it from hand to hand among his crew. Christine took it in her turn, and gave it a cursory glance. 'A man who can create such a thing is well worth the pursuing.'

'He is my heart's true friend, and I will not rest until I find him,' said Henry simply, and they accepted this without question or comment.

Someone brought up a rower's bench from below for Henry and Christine to sit, and Jason and the Argonauts – the Argonauts! - gathered round them again, on coils of rope or leaning on the rail or perched in the rigging. 'Tell us your story, then, and make it a good one!' said Atalanta, and there were nods all round.

'Butes, I think our guests would be glad of a meal,' said Jason to another man, short, stocky, cheerful-looking. Then he turned back. 'You look weary, King Henry. You've been through a battle, I think? And you said you've been through translations before.'

He told in brief the tale of their journeys through the past, the creatures they had fought, the dangers they had evaded. When he came to the comet and how they'd escaped it at the last moment, someone said, 'One of Discordia's, that, no doubt,' and there were mutters of assent. Then he went on to relate the story of de Rais' abduction of Montjoy and of Christine's family, and their pursuit of him across France; and the attack at Fontainebleau brought appreciative nods from the Greeks.

The food Butes had brought them was very welcome; bread, and olives, and fish stew in red pottery bowls, with honeyed fruit afterwards. Henry, mindful of the tale of Persephone, scanned his dish of fruit, trying not to be obvious about it, and saw Christine doing the same. Oranges he recognised, and there was a golden-skinned apple, cut into slices, and grapes, of course. But he could not see any pomegranate seeds, and so, relieved, he dug in his spoon.

It was all refreshing, delicious, if not quite what he had been used to. He ate with a will. He had not eaten since the night before, and down in the world below, dawn would be breaking soon. He wondered what they were doing now, down there in the château. Exeter would have his troops well in hand, Gloucester would be working on the counter-spell already, he was sure of that. They had learned so much in their journeys through the past. Not least, that they should never give up.

Christine was speaking; she seemed unconcerned about asking questions, and Henry was relieved, for he had no wish to display his own ignorance. And Christine was a scholar born, it seemed.

'Sir, there's so much I don't understand about this place. We're among the stars, you say, and this is the Argo, which we know as a vast constellation. But there are other stars above us. Is that the firmament itself?'

'Nauplius is our navigator. He can explain better than I!'

Nauplius came and sat down next to them. He was a big man, bearded, with dark hair which seemed to have gleams of blue and green in it. His voice was deep as the sea.

'The firmament is as far above us as we are above the world below. But those stars you see are the translunary fires, the further stars, set there by the Lord God on the first day. Some you might see from the world below if you know where to look. We folk of the sky-country can navigate by them; see there.' He pointed over the starboard bow; Christine was listening intently. She looked along his arm to a bright star, hanging low in the north. 'Up above the Lady Andromeda's domain. You can see that one from below, although it's very far off. There are others, too, some closer to us.' He gestured above the sail, where a cluster of stars, more indistinct, covered a patch of sky the size of the full moon. 'I’ll teach them to you, King Henry, in case you need them.' He pointed them out, one after another. 'They're fixed; they have not the power to move, as do the planetary gods.'

'Gods?' Henry's mind grappled with the concept. A few hours earlier he'd been leading an attack on a castle; mundane work indeed!

'Under God Himself, yes,' said Nauplius. 'The Lady Moon is freest of them all. Most of the rest stay near the Zodiac, their highway, going about their duties there. My father Neptune does the same, though he's so distant you'll never see him below.' His father, Neptune. Henry, after a moment's startlement, bowed his head a little, and Christine did the same. Nauplius acknowledged this courtesy with a smile and continued, 'But we're headed towards the Zodiac now, and you may meet one or another of them. We star-folk stay in our own domains for the most part, but we have old friends scattered around the sky.'

'And enemies too, if I remember rightly. What of them?' asked Christine.

'Yes, there are enemies,' said Jason soberly. 'We've some notable fighters, though, and the Lord Mars is indefatigable. You'll find as many friends as enemies, and as many more will be indifferent. Go carefully, King Henry, be courteous, hold to your quest, and you've as good a chance of winning through as any.'

Christine stirred suddenly at that, and made to speak, then seemed to change what she had been about to say. 'Sirs, ladies. I must ask this; forgive me. In our world below, your adventures happened many a hundred years ago. To us – your pardon! you are long dead. Yet here we are, in your company. Does that mean that we're dead? My daughter? Montjoy?'

'No, madame, you are not, though I cannot answer for them. But mortals can step between one world and another, if they're careful, and lucky. You might well be among them.'

Henry let go a breath that he hadn't known he had been holding. There was, perhaps, a way back, then. But he did not forget that she had, perhaps, had another question. What else had she intended to ask?

Away to their right, a shoal of silver darts broke the surface of the water and vanished beneath again, distracting him. 'What are they?' asked Henry, peering out across the rail. Would he have to go that way?

'Flying fish!' answered Nauplius. 'That's Lord Volans' domain; we're on good terms with him, as long as we're careful where we fish. And that's the Mountain beyond.'

Henry could just make it out, flat-topped, covered in pearly cloud, looming distant over the (wine-dark, his mind supplied) sea.

Christine was now in conversation with Atalanta, over on the other side of the ship; but the talk was winding down, and Jason said at last, 'Well, guests, you should sleep now; you've had a long day, King Henry - and the lady will no doubt be glad to rest! Go below now, and when you awake you'll be close to our destination – the Unicorn's land, which is as far north as the _Argo_ can take you.'

A unicorn. Well, it was no greater wonder than any he had seen so far.

The hatch was just astern of the mainmast; down a wide ladder were the rowers' benches, and a space with long tables. Butes dragged one of these aside for them, and pallets and bedding were brought out. Henry lay down, with Christine but a couple of feet away, and put his sword – which Jason had given back to him - close to hand.

There was a small lamp burning, hanging by bronze chains from a beam above. In its dim light, Henry watched Butes and the rest go back up the ladder, and turned his head back to see Christine looking at him.

'This is real, isn't it,' she said softly. 'The _Argo_. I can't quite believe it, but it's real.'

'Yes, madame,' he answered with careful civility. 'I have found in the past few months that it's all real – and that the only way to stay alive is to remember that.'

'I knew nothing of what was planned for you – and if I had known I would have done what I could to prevent it. I am not your enemy, King Henry. We have common cause.'

Henry sighed. 'I know. Sleep now. Tomorrow we'll talk again – but I have a journey to go on if I'm to find de Rais, so I must sleep too.' A journey across the sky. How could he even contemplate such a thing?

Having ended the conversation thus, he turned on his side, and waited while her breathing settled into a steady rhythm. Then he worked a hand into the breast of his cote, and felt for the talisman. He'd been unwilling to show it while the talk on deck had circled the subject of sorcery, but now he had his chance; propped on one elbow, he let it swing from his fingers, and waited. Would it work in this strange country?

Yes. North, the way they were heading. He tucked it away again, and lay back down. He listened while to the water rushing past the _Argo_ 's hull and the voices of her crew, and drifted away into darkness shot with fire and the clash of arms.

-x-

Again Montjoy felt that faint, familiar touch. It sustained him in the dreadful journey that he was now undertaking, with the roar of wings about him, hearing all the while the distant echo of shouts, of the clash of arms. It seemed that it had been going on for hours now.

Marie, crushed close against him by a hard arm, turned her head a little so that she could breathe more easily. He angled his shoulder away to give her an inch or two more room. 'Be strong,' he whispered, and she nodded just a fraction.

He had barely had time to think since de Rais has burst into their prison cell. Yet he himself had far more reason to be strong than before, for Henry was hot on their trail; had followed from Troyes - God alone knew how!

Dragged from their prison cell, forced up the spiral stair at a run with Gilles' dagger at Marie's throat, with the noise of explosions, of wild shouting in his ears, he had no idea who, or what, or why, until he saw Exeter burst into the workshop, with Henry but a step behind. De Rais had snatched up something that shone golden in the torchlight, and yelled at Tommaso to set the spell.

He'd known they were going somewhere strange, but not where. All he knew was that he and the child must stay together. So he clutched at Marie while the spell was worked, and while it hurled them far from the workshop into realms unknown, and all the while repeated senselessly to her, 'It'll be all right. It'll be all right.'

Darkness, shot with whirling fires. Then solid ground beneath his feet; he staggered and fell. So did they all, even de Rais, but he scrambled up again, and Montjoy followed suit more slowly.

De Rais was staring round, as if he was expecting someone. Montjoy took in all he could see. They were on a grassy hill, with a huge scaffold close by, and some vast triangular instrument poised on top of it. The golden thing in Gilles' hand was shining, as if it gained more power from being close to it. Far away to one side, a huge ocean, and a monster like a sea-serpent breaching the waters.

He was afraid; of the monster, of the country they were now in, and of de Rais most of all. But now there was a roar, and the air shook with the sound of it. It went right through him to his very bones. Even de Rais was surprised, and let go of Marie as he turned. And a lion sprang at them - bigger even than Half-tooth! - and roared again, and they scattered as best they could.

The lion had de Rais down, and might have killed him there and then, but he had an ally as well as enemies. There was a thunder of wings – the wings that carried him now - and something struck the lion with a staff, and knocked it flying, and cursed it back to its own domain. It snarled – and spoke.

'Discordia! You've no more right than I to be in this place. But I will obey the law, as you do not. Take heed. My liege-man follows you. In straight combat he might defeat even you. Do not harm these people!'

Discordia, goddess of strife. There she was, standing in front of the Lion now, wings spread, staff in hand. Christ be our aid, thought Montjoy; but also Henry? Henry is still following?

She laughed at the lion; taunted him. 'Your precious liege-man half belongs to me anyway. Are you so sure he will not join me?'

'Yes, for he knows his duty, as you do not! And there are others who will watch over these people. Be warned, Discordia!'

She curtseyed gracefully, then shrieked, 'I thank you, little Lion. Now get you back to your own fields or you'll have me and my brother to reckon with!'

'Word will get out, Discordia. Have a care, you and Lord Pluto both. Be strong, my friends!' he called out. 'My liege-man is in the sky-country even now!' But Discordia raised the staff to him again, and he gave her a contemptuous look, turned his back on her, and loped away.

Discordia laughed gleefully, a horrible sound, and de Rais bowed to her and said, 'My Lady. You answered my call. I am in your debt, you know that. How may I serve you?'

'I'll think of ways, little one, you may be sure. Spread your discord and your fear in the world below, that'll do for a start. But we'll need to be away from here before word gets out. Where would you go?'

He glanced at his prisoners – no longer troubling to hold onto Marie, now he had such an ally, and murmured in Discordia' ear. She hissed in satisfaction. 'It may serve; it may well serve. Well, I’ll take you there, if you should wish it.'

'It's more than I could hope, Lady.'

'Tush, tush,' she said, and chucked his chin; then lunged about, swept an arm about both Montjoy and Marie, caught de Rais up too, and sprang into the sky. And in the turmoil of the Lion's attack and Discordia's appearance, neither of their captors had noticed when Montjoy had fallen across the golden thing that de Rais had dropped, and when he staggered to his feet again, kicked it as far away as he could.

-x-

It was, Henry thought, many hours later when he awoke and sat up. Christine was still asleep beside him, and yes, they were still on the _Argo_ , with the lamp swinging on its chains in little circles, sending shadows chasing around below-decks. The motion of the great ship had changed, the easy pitch and swing turning short and choppy. They were coming towards land. He ran his fingers through his hair, and went softly to the wide ladder, climbed up it and out onto the deck.

Despite all the hours that had passed, there was no hint of dawn in the sky; it still looked to be at the last moment of twilight. The crescent moon rode high over the mainmast; but not as high, thought Henry, gazing upwards, as in the world below. It seemed larger, nearer; it shone with a clear bright sheen.

The great sail was part-reefed, and a concourse of the crew was up near the prow. 'Greetings, King Henry!' A clear voice; Jason, of course. 'Come break your fast! Are you rested?'

'Very much so, I thank you.' He climbed the steps to the foredeck, and there was Butes, who handed him a plate with bread and soft cheese. 'I am far better fed than on any of my previous adventures,' he said as he accepted it gratefully. Endless, tasteless meat of this monster or that; it had been a trial.

'You'll need your strength today,' said Butes cheerfully. 'Eat, now!'

'Tell me, if you will, ' he said, between bites. 'I’ve been here many hours, I think, but there's no hint of daybreak. It's midsummer in France now, and the nights are short. Does the sun not come here?'

'No, never. Do you not know the tale of how his father Jove barred Phoebus from the night sky? You must steel yourselves for night until you return home.'

That was difficult to comprehend, and he continued his meal in silence while he grappled with it.

He was finishing when Christine appeared, and spared a moment to acknowledge her. She seemed enviably self-possessed, and had a look of determination. She also looked far less rumpled than he felt; how did she do that? He left her to her meal, and with the aid of Butes, packed up a satchel of his needs for the journey; mostly foodstuffs, with a little pot of salve and a roll or two of bandages; and he was provided with a cloak.

'There's no chance of a horse, I suppose?' he asked, already sure of the answer.

'Far to the north, and there are many domains they cannot cross.' said Nauplius. 'You'll go quicker on foot.'

Now Henry felt confident enough to pull out the talisman. It pointed north and a little east now, after so many days of leading him westwards. Nauplius watched with great interest. 'If that heading is true, it'll lead you across the Hydra's sea. You know the Hydra as the Sea-Serpent, I think. It's an ocean bigger even than the one we sail – and we cannot take you there. You'll need to go round to the north first, to get to the Zodiac, and see where your talisman takes you from there. You'll go through the Unicorn's land, and the Little Dog's, before you get to the Zodiac.'

They went to stand at the prow. Up ahead Henry could make out, against the darkling sky, a coastline of low wooded hills, with open glades and meadows, and in the distance, the looming bulk of hills against the night.

'I’ve never seen a unicorn,' said Henry. 'Is it likely to be my friend or foe?'

'It's possible you'll never meet him. He's a shy beast, not easily seen. But his country is a kindly one.'

There was a wide shoreland between it and the _Argo_ ; white sand, waving sea-grass and winding creeks. It was towards one of these creeks that the Argo was headed, her sail rattling in a lively breeze, her prow cutting through the waves. Shining spray flew over them once or twice.

Perhaps a quarter-hour later, the sail and mast were lowered and they were rowing up the widest of the waterways. Tiphys, at the steering-oar, sang out, 'Slow now, slow now,' and a few moments later the keel softly scraped the bottom. Up on the poop, Jason gave an order and the anchors dropped fore and aft; the oars stilled and stout poles rattled out in their place. The Argo shifted a little, once or twice, and settled. Her present voyage was done.

Down amidships a couple of the crew ran out a gangplank to a sand-bar in the creek. Henry set his shoulders and crossed the fore-deck. Things had been easy for him so far, for all the amazement (firmly suppressed, for fear that he would be entirely overset) he had felt at his position. Now the real test was about to begin.

He was fully prepared for a dispute with Christine. Surely she would insist on going with him? She had not been behindhand up till now; but there she was, sitting up on the poop near Tiphys, studying something in her lap. She raised her head once, and gave him a long steady look, and acknowledged his farewell. But that was all.

Puzzled, but relieved he did not have a battle on his hands at the outset of his journey, he descended the ladder from the prow to the maindeck.

Jason was by the gangplank. 'Go well, King Henry,' he said seriously. 'Come safe through your adventures. We'll look forward to hearing your tales when you return!' He gripped Henry's hand for a moment – all wiry strength and calluses – and clapped him on the shoulder.

Henry sat on the rail, swung his legs over the side and put his foot onto the first slat of the gangplank. Looking back at at all those figures from legend, he said, 'Thank-you again, my lords, my ladies. Take care of the lady Christine, I beg. I’ll be as quick as I may.'

Christine herself was still on the poop-deck, looking searchingly ahead at the land of the Unicorn. But she spared a glance for Henry, and gave a distant nod before resuming her gaze.

He sighed in exasperation, and went carefully down the slanting gangplank, dropping past the line where the planking of the hull changed from dry to wet, soaked with the water of the River. A few slats further, and his boot splashed into the shallow water lapping over the sand-bar. He tested his footing before trusting all of his weight to the sand; almost he expected to go crashing through the sky-floor, dull mortal that he was. But it was solid beneath his feet, supporting him as easily as it did the great weight of the _Argo_.

A further moment's pause while he settled his sword-belt and satchel to his satisfaction, then he lifted his hand to the Argonauts and to Christine, set his face towards the shore, and left the shelter of the great ship. Ahead, across a wide beach, was the park-like land of the Unicorn, with its little glades and meadows, and small hills rising up towards the more distant highlands.

He climbed up the beach, white sand shifting under his feet as if it were the mundane sand of the world below, and at its head, where close-cropped turf ran down to meet it, turned back to see the _Argo_ being poled off into deeper water. She look very small now across the width of the beach. The painted eyes on her prow seemed to regard him, to search and question him. Why did he think he could do this thing, march across the very heavens in pursuit of his enemy, of his true love, of innocence personified?

'Great tasks await you,' there was a whisper in his mind. 'Do not waste time.'

Was the ship herself speaking now?

All he could do was follow that advice; and since he'd never been one to waste time it suited him well.

A last cry of farewell floated over the beach; he acknowledged it, turned and set off northwards, following the further stars that Nauplius the navigator had pointed out to him.

-x-

It was easy going at first, across springy turf dotted with wild-flowers, past shadowed spinneys of small, graceful trees, with little streams of crystal water running down from the west and criss-crossing his path every so often. Colours were apparent close by, but faded off into monochrome in the dim light. At first he was exceedingly wary, glancing left and right, listening hard for approaching hoof-beats, but as time went on and the lord of the domain made no appearance, he lost his first edge of extreme caution. The sound of the waves breaking on the shoreline receded as he left the River behind.

Even the skies of the Unicorn's domain were beautiful, with rosette clusters of the further stars, and faint veils glowing around them. They and the crescent moon helped to light his way very adequately.

An hour, two, climbing gently all the while, and he stopped beside a streamlet to rest and eat a bite to keep his strength up. There were ferns growing down beside the stream-bed, and small lilies in the turf. Wild roses and honeysuckle scrambled about, and small birds hopped and chirped among them. Truly it was an enchanted forest - which was hardly to be wondered at, considering where it was.

He was almost ready to go on when his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of swift footsteps behind him – too light for a unicorn, surely? He scrambled to his feet and looked around, to see two women come marching up from the south. Wild thoughts of nymphs or dryads flashed through his mind; they were too collected to be Maenads, God be praised! And as they descended the slope of the valley, following the path he had taken, he recognised them. Maenads might perhaps have been easier to deal with.

One, carrying spear and satchel, striding out confidently, was unmistakably Atalanta. And beside her was another woman, dressed similarly in a short chiton and cloak, a dagger at her waist, and shod in hunting-boots. Her dark hair was caught in a knot, and her stride was as determined as Atalanta's. Henry stared at her for a moment, trying not to believe it; but this was none other than Christine de Pisan.

'King Henry!' Atalanta greeted him as they splashed through the little stream. 'Like it or not, you'll need a friend on this journey, and there's someone who has a greater reason to make it. So I’ve brought her to you, and you can continue on together.'

He tried not to gape. The sight of a woman of his own kind, in a short tunic – he blenched at the glimpse of a bare knee as Christine scrambled up the near bank – had him at a loss for words. Then he caught himself; 'Your pardon, Atalanta, I beg. I’ve no wish to insult either of you, but this journey is full of hazards. I can protect myself, I believe; but not a woman too!'

'No mother needs to be protected when her child is at risk,' said Atalanta sternly.

Christine added with determination, 'Even so complete a soldier as Henry of England may need someone to guard his back from time to time – and not just in battle! I've been studying my father's almanac, and there's matter in it that might help us, I believe. So here I am, and I’ll not slow you down in any way. Rather, you'll have trouble keeping up with me! I'm armed as you see, and I’ll not hesitate to fight' – as Atalanta handed her the spear - 'if it should be necessary.'

'So you see, King Henry,' Atalanta told him, 'it's a comrade I bring you, not a burden. You've no need to fear being hindered in your task. Go now, you're wasting time.' She pointed an imperious hand to the north.

'I’d rather go alone,' reiterated Henry.

'I thought you'd say so,' snapped Christine, 'and I’d rather not go alone, but I will if I have to. Atalanta - ' she turned to her, ignoring Henry - 'fare you well. I thank you for your aid.'

'Go well, Christine. May the Blessed Virgin watch over you on your way. Come back safe to the Argo, and your daughter with you!' She embraced Christine briefly, gave her the satchel, and turned to go.

'You're leaving us?' asked Henry blankly.

'Yes. I must return to the _Argo_. We folk of the sky-country may not blithely hop from one domain to another. That would be but a short step to Chaos once more. I'm overstepping my bounds as it is; if the Unicorn found me in his lands I’d as like as not be skewered for my presumption. You small mortals may creep where we fear to stride.'

Henry looked from one woman to the other. The brief hope faded that Atalanta would take Christine back to the _Argo_ \- or journey with her - or better yet, accompany the two of them if Christine refused to return. But no. Christine was hefting the spear experimentally in her hands, testing its weight and balance. She would not turn back. And it was not so long since he'd been bested by two women in concert; Princess Katherine and her waiting-woman Alice had made short work of him in Troyes. He had very little experience of women.

He exhaled in annoyance. He'd been properly out-manoeuvred. 'Come with me, then, if you must, madame! Be prepared to march and fight and make hard decisions. I’ll not be held back by you.'

Christine and Atalanta exchanged complicit looks, annoying him still further.

'Wisely said, King Henry. Now, be on your way, and I’ll get back to my shipmates; maybe they'll have re-floated _Argo_ by now!' Atalanta lifted one hand, turned, splashed through the stream again and departed at a swift lope, and they called their thanks and farewells after her, Christine cheerful and Henry dazed.

Henry looked after her, then back at Christine, with equal irritation. 'God be my aid,' he said simply, and gestured towards the north. 'We must not waste any more time.' He started up the valley-side, hoping mightily that they would not encounter the Unicorn as they went. He set a swift pace, shooting a challenging glance at Christine. She shouldered her satchel, took a firmer grip on the bronze-headed spear (taller than she was) and matched him stride for stride.  
-x-

After a while a fine, sweet rain began to fall, and they twitched the hoods of their cloaks up. Henry squinted up at the heavens. 'I had not expected rain in the sky-country,' he said. Anything to break the ringing silence between them, even if it was only to talk about the weather. 'But it's coming in from the west, just as it does in the world below.'

'Drifting in from Orion's land, I don't doubt,' replied his companion, pointing to the west. He peered, and far away could make out a mass of uplands, covered with a gathering of nebulous cloud. Not so high as the Mountain that Nauplius had shown him across the River, nor was the cloud so bright. 'Rainy Orion, after all,' she continued.

'Rainy Orion?'

'Yes, that's what the ancients call the constellation. Are you not familiar with the classics?'

'Evidently not, madame,' he said shortly. 'I had other concerns in my youth.' His father's wars, and his own entertainment.

There was a mutter from his side which might have been, 'We heard about those,' but he pretended not to hear. They were silent again for a while; but now Henry was beginning to wonder whether Christine might not be less of a liability than he had at first assumed. If she knew her way around the sky-country she might yet pull her weight on this quest.

The rain passed over, and when they next stopped to rest he took out the talisman again. Christine watched with close attention as he held it dangling from his fingers, and waited for the faint tug. It pulled him more east than north now. 'That way,' he said, and she was on her feet again in an instant, scanning the copses and glades ahead to find their best path. Henry had to acknowledge her determination. He chose the path that looked likeliest to him, and took up position on her right, to have his sword-arm free if need be.

'I wish I had such a talisman to lead me to Marie,' she said. 'But I do not have the power, and truly didn't know such power existed.'

'Nor did I know that I had the power. I knew I had power temporal, and power spiritual in some theoretical sense. But I didn't know it was a real living thing until quite recently,' he said – or was it long ago it was that he'd demonstrated it in the land of the sail-backs? 'And it's two-edged, like most things in life.' But he had no intention of revealing to Christine the drawbacks of the power spiritual – not yet.

'You may be sure I envy you that power, two-edged or not. Apart from my almanac, all the guidance I have is your talisman, and I can only trust that it will take me to Marie as well as Montjoy.' She sighed, but lifted her chin, and continued the march with unabated speed.

'Yes, you mentioned an almanac. What of it?'

'I snatched it up in my father's workshop.' She pulled a small, leather-bound book a little way out of her satchel. 'It charts this sky-country, among other things, and will doubtless be useful – but it cannot tell me where Marie is. For that, I have to follow you.'

Henry remembered the little almanac belonging to Dr. Colnet that had been their guide in their adventures in the past. They had referred to it constantly. Now there was another such that he could consult – though he knew such rarefied knowledge was not something he could make use of without an interpreter. And here was his interpreter.

'Your daughter,' he said, when they'd been walking for a while longer. It was best that they continue talking – and he was aware that most parents loved to talk about their children. 'I caught just the briefest glimpse of her. Tell me about her! How old is she?'

'She's my eldest,' and a mother's love was plain in her voice. 'She'll be nine years old on her next saint's day. She was a happy child when her father was alive. It hit her very hard, but she's been looking after her brother. I think it gave her a feeling of responsibility.'

'She didn't weep or scream, there in the workshop.'

'No, she wouldn't! She won't let anyone see what hurts her. She has too much pride. I don't mean that as a sin...'

'You mean she's brave.'

'Yes. Yes, she is. I am proud to sinfulness of her – of both my children! But her pride will serve her well at this time, and in times to come – if we find her.'

'We'll find her.' He added quickly, to divert her mind, 'What do you plan for her future?'

'I hardly know! Marriage may be out of the question now; I can give her no dowry. A nun, maybe, if any nunnery will take her. Or if we can keep the family together, she may be able to work as a copyist or a painter – if she does not follow in my footsteps as a writer!'

An odd thought fleeted through Henry's mind. If they won through, could he offer this scholarly family security? Could he offer them a home? Not entirely from altruistic motives, though he had to admit a certain respect for Christine. She and her father had knowledge and skills that England might need. He had already spoken to Montjoy of his hope to found a school of astrology. With Montjoy himself, the King's Enchanter who had brought them out of the past, at its head and his brother Gloucester over all – and the de Pisan family, with all their learning and determination, could be a great asset.

'And your son? We saw him, there in the workshop, I think.'

'Yes. Jean. At least he's safe. He's six years old. It'll be easier for him to find employment, though it'll be a while yet before he can support himself. I hardly think he can support the rest of us too. So many friends have fallen away since I was widowed.' Bitterness tinged her voice for a moment. 'He'll have to take whatever position he can find.'

'He'll be safe with my kinsmen for now, at least, and your cousin too; you may be sure of that.'

Well, the family might be glad of security in England. But that was far in the future, and here they were in the midst of his wildest adventure yet. There were all the hazards of the sky-country to negotiate first – and a hazard that had nothing to do with the sky-country.

What did de Rais have planned for them? He wondered about this for a score or so of paces; then asked: 'Tell me, did you know de Rais at all?' Blanchlyverer had told them what little he knew. Christine would surely know more.

'Why, no, a casual acquaintanceship at best, but he's young, after all, and I'm an old woman to him. Our degree was very different, too. He's heir to the largest fortune in Europe, and to two great lordships. I'm but the daughter of a court astrologer, who has to earn a living with her pen.'

'Were there rumours about him? Gossip?'

There was a pause, as she searched inwardly. 'He was lately come from his estates in Brittany and the Loire.' Brittany, thought Henry, remembering how he'd sent Bedford to the Duke there. That had been a lucky choice; the Duke would no doubt be glad to get his hands on a few of de Rais' seigneuries.

But Christine was still speaking. 'People found him disquieting. There was talk of a marriage contract that had fallen through. I cannot remember the details. But to back out of so advantageous a marriage contract was unusual.' Henry made a non-committal sound, for he'd bolted – there was no other word for it! - out of an even more advantageous marriage. Christine paused for a moment, as though the same thought had occurred to her, then went on: 'And he'd come and go. Most of the nobles clustered around the court, around Queen Isabeau particularly, because that was where advancement could be gained. Well, I did so myself!' she acknowledged ruefully. 'But though de Rais spoke to the Queen once or twice, he didn't really seem to care – or perhaps he had more pressing matters to attend to, out there in the west. He didn't seem to care about much apart from himself.'

'Too much too soon, and never had to work for it,' supplied Henry.

'Yes, that's part of it. But there was something else. As if he was looking down on all of us. Laughing at us.'

'Did he ever go near Montjoy?'

'Not that I remember. Far beneath his notice.'

'Good.' De Rais was doomed anyway, if Henry ever got his hands on him; but the manner of his dying was open to question. 'Why do you think has he done this?'

'I know not, King Henry. Why do you do what you do?'

'It is my duty.'

'Some would say it's the duty of all Frenchmen to rid our land of you.'

'Many would say that. But only de Rais has taken it this far. What does he gain from defeating me?' He paused, and answered his own question, as persuasively as he could. 'No doubt it's the freedom to go his own way. Your king can barely control his nobles, his son; my rule is stronger and de Rais would no longer be able to do as he pleases if I were king of France. You've seen what he does even now. If he could have his own way in all things, what then for France?' He saw his words strike home. 'But maybe that's not his reason. Maybe he does this simply because he can.'

'Maybe,' she said reluctantly, and lapsed into silence.  
-x-

The River lay far behind them now, but after a while they came to another shoreline. Pausing again at the crest of a seaward hill, they looked out across a vast ocean, extending far into the distance on their right, indigo waters and inky sky meeting and merging at the edge of sight. Flocks of sea-birds wheeled and called all the while above them. Waves, gleaming with seafire, broke on the shore at the foot of the cliff, but the waters were calmer far away to their right, losing themselves among winding creeks like the one up which Argo had rowed. Further off were distant salt-flats.

'The Hydra's sea,' announced Christine, with some satisfaction at her knowledge. 'Here, look.' She pulled out her father's almanac, and opened it at a double-page spread showing a celestial map. 'The Argo cannot not sail it, so we must go around. It's a mighty domain – the biggest in the heavens, maybe. But we're almost at the northern end of it. Jason could bring us thus far. We must be nearing the border of the Unicorn's land now, and once we've crossed the Little Dog's, we can turn east.'

'That will take us to the land of the Crab,' said Henry, casting an eye over the map. 'The sign of homecoming,' and he was pleased that Christine seemed surprised at his knowledge. 'Maybe that's a good omen!' He twisted one of the rings he wore; silver and pearl, which they had made to invoke that sign.

Christine added, 'But we have a way to go through the Unicorn's land still. Since I am self-evidently no virgin – and, forgive me, I somehow doubt that you are – we must make haste.'  
Henry fairly gasped at this, but before he could think of a response, Christine was already moving off northwards. Henry hurried after her.

'I left my virginity behind me many years ago,' he said in some indignation, 'though I was never as promiscuous as the stories would no doubt have it! And lately, not at all!'

'Your wilder days, yes, we all heard the tales of you slumming it in the taverns of London.'

'I don't doubt they were exaggerated, madame, and I'm sure they left out the main point of the exercise.'

'Which was?'

'To know my people. All of them, not just the nobles and churchmen. To know myself.'

'And to have a good time the while?'

'That, too!' He tried the charm that had won round Princess Katherine, and was rewarded with a reluctant smile. Lucky that she had no idea of the real reason; good God, he'd been young then! But now she sobered, and her mouth set in a straight line. She increased her pace. 'I should not have spoken lightly of such matters.'

'Why not? The whole of Europe is very familiar with my history, it seems.'

'Not for your sake, King Henry, but for Marie's. De Rais has her.'

Henry felt suddenly sick, not just at the thought of de Rais, but at the remembrance of threats he'd made long ago at Harfleur. Empty threats, but he had spoken them nonetheless. 'Montjoy is with her, and he'll protect her with his life. And be very sure, too, that I'll kill de Rais when we find him, whether he's harmed them or no.'

'If I do not reach him first,' she said grimly. 'But you're right; I had forgotten she's not alone with him. I must trust to Montjoy, then. He's a good man, and kind. That's sometimes worth more than many a proud knight who thinks only of ransoms.'

'You know him, then!'

'Yes, of course. Why would I not? And Marie and Jean have met him, too, once or twice. That's why I know he will protect her.'

Henry was struggling a little with the idea. He had almost forgotten that Montjoy must have a life wholly unknown to him; friends, family, long years of travelling and diplomacy. They had had so little time just to sit and talk, as they grappled with the necessities of their journey through the past (and latterly, grappled with each other, as his earthier side acknowledged.) Now he wanted to hear more about Montjoy's life in France.

'This was at court, I take it?'

'Yes. He gave me what help he could. When my father disappeared, I had to cast about for ways to make a living. For after my husband died - ' she paused for a moment, braced her shoulders, and went on. 'There was a dispute over the will, and I spent all my ready money in trying to gain my rightful legacy. But I lost the court case.'

'You spent your money? Was there no brother, no uncle, who could aid you?'

'None – and my father had vanished. I am the head of my house now. My children – my daughter! - and my cousins all depend on me.'

Henry tried to imagine it: a woman, fighting for her own in a world ruled by men. 'The king..?'

'Could not help me. Could barely help himself. But I'd lived at court because of my father's position. And I had some skill with my pen, and some scholarship. So I began to write. Poems, ballads, an allegory or two, and they grew into something more. They were popular, maybe only because it was a woman that wrote them, but they were the best I could make them! And Montjoy – well, he was not often at court, but when he was, we'd talk sometimes. I enjoyed our talks; he'd travelled so widely, seen so much. And he was never driven by the need for power.'

'Gentle Herald,' murmured Henry, with a private smile.

'What..?' A tiny pause. 'Yes, he was. And sometimes he'd take some of my poems with him, when he went abroad. My cousins would write them out and illustrate them, to save the cost of a clerk. He took some to Italy,' and Henry's mind suddenly wanted to cry out _Why didn't you bring me poems?_ though he knew the answer. 'I liked to hear him talk of Italy, although I can barely remember it. I was younger than my son is now when my father brought us to France. Well, we made some extra money that way, and it brought in orders for my books. It was a struggle, but I kept us all fed and housed, and safe. Until now.'

'Life is always a struggle.'

'What can a king know of that?'

'Oh, I know. Don't doubt it. I was held hostage as a child, I and all my brothers and sisters. Taken here and there by an untrustworthy king, and knighted by him just to show that he could. Then in my father's reign there was rebellion after rebellion. We were always on a knife-edge - and I became something of a rebel myself! And because of who I was, the eyes of the world were always upon me.'

They were quiet for a while; the ground ahead was rising steadily, and further to the north were hills, low at first and then rugged. The many streams running down to greet them had little waterfalls now, and they stopped at one of them to drink and re-fill their water-bottles. When the slope eased off, Christine said, 'He grew more thoughtful, you know, after he met you.'

'Montjoy, you mean?'

'Yes. When he came back from other courts, other kings, he'd tell me about them; how life was lived there, what intrigues there were, whatever he thought might be useful to me. But he said very little about you, even though I asked him. He'd look at the nobles of our court, and at King Charles, and he'd look sad. And he seemed very little surprised after the battle.'

'Just sad,' supplied Henry.

'Yes. We were all sad.'

Another slope, steeper. From its top they could see that the land ahead was more rugged, with wooded hills and dales like a choppy sea stretching away to the north and west. Christine said, 'We're through the Unicorn's domain, I believe. Atalanta said he's a shy beast, though fierce. So I'm not surprised we haven't seen him. And I cannot think that the Little Dog will have any quarrel with us – I like dogs! - and in any case he might be away hunting with Orion.'

'With Orion!' Henry looked across towards the west, to the mighty hunter's rainy uplands, and once more pictured him striding across his domain. 'Will we meet him, I wonder? And what will we say to him, if we do?'

'I can scarce imagine it myself. But unless we're in a dream – and we've agreed we're not - here we are, almost at the boundaries of his land.'

'I’ve never known a dream last so long or be so real. But you're familiar with the world of astrology; have you heard of this happening to anyone else?' He remembered, on that very first night in the land of the sailbacks, asking much the same thing of Montjoy.

'No, never, though Jason said it has happened. I think it would be possible for those who have the learning. But the will - the means by which the power is gained – has been lacking, until de Rais.' She stopped, and pulled out the almanac. 'See. Here's Little Dog's land. Nauplius marked up the map for me.' Henry saw the words 'Canis Minor' written small, and hills drawn in by a later hand.

'We're here?' Henry pointed to a boundary-line on the map.

'Yes. Nauplius drew in the hills, and some other constellations – birds and animals, and strange engines too! I hope we do not have to go south; there are constellations there that I don't know at all.'

There were little pictures; a clock, and instruments of learning that looked vaguely familiar, and creatures he could not recognise. The lettering was Greek. He had never learned Greek. He traced with relief the path they were taking; north and east to the Zodiac. There he knew most of the names, at least.

'The Crab. Yes. I've called on him before. And the Lion. No, Lions,' for there was a little lion to the north of the greater one. 'I’ll be glad if our path lies that way, not south.'

'So will I.' She fished in her satchel, and brought out some of the food from Argo. 'I must rest a little and eat, my lord. I am not used to this exercise.'

Henry was glad enough of the chance to sit for a while, but did not say so. 'I’ll carry your satchel and spear for a while,' he offered chivalrously; and did so when they set out again up the rugged ridge.

This was good hunting country, Henry thought, with crags and climbing woods, and streams, always streams, running down from Orion's domain, and little tarns here and there. There were signs of quarry too; he wondered how that worked. Were the beasts immortal, did they breed, or die and rise again? Unless he could ask the Little Dog personally, he would probably never know.

They were climbing another steep slope up the edge of a hanging wood now, and from politeness Henry didn't talk as they scrambled among the mossy green boulders. He looked back once or twice, half-expecting to see the Little Dog come nosing up the rocky hillside towards them. Then the slope eased off, and they stopped on the rocky summit – Christine sinking down onto one of the boulders – to allow her to catch her breath. Henry leaned on the spear, glad of its support though he would not sit down, and he gazed round at the tumbled hills, the flatter lands to the south, and the vast, dark sea.

'You were telling me about Montjoy,' he prodded, carefully casual.

'Yes.' She heaved herself to her feet and fell in beside him. The hill was the southernmost bastion of a long ridge that flanked the shoreline. There was some sort of low woody growth on it, windswept by the sea, but there were paths through it, made by the lord of the domain no doubt, and they followed one of these. The bushes reached almost to Henry's waist as he brushed through them, and they released aromatic scents as he did so; herbs of some kind, then. He thought he recognised rosemary, at least. On his left, to the west, the ridge fell steeply down into a wooded valley with a swift-flowing noisy stream in it, and beyond that, the land rose again, on the first step of its way up to Orion's rainy highlands.

She continued, 'When he came back the last time, to Troyes just a week ago, he looked grieved indeed. We went through the preparations for the treaty and your betrothal, and he hardly said a word except on matters of state. He'd go to the stables when he was not working, seeing to his horse, he said, but I think he just wanted Reynard's company.'

Henry blinked once or twice. His own days had been equally blank. He'd had his military duties to occupy him, but his own future, sharing a life with a sweet lady whom he could not love, had seemed bleak indeed. The effort he'd made to woo her, to make her laugh, to allay her fears, had been genuine, but his heart had been elsewhere.

'Well, he'll have our company soon enough,' he said stoutly, 'he and your daughter both.'

'I pray we may. The children are all I have left of Etienne. We'd been so happy, all of us, with our family and our house.'

They'd lost their home, their money, the centre of their lives. How many, at Harfleur and afterwards, had done the same? Here were all the women of France, speaking to him through one woman's voice.

'We'll get them back. If it's possible for a man to do it – I'll do it.'

'If Henry of England promises it, who am I to doubt it?' she asked wryly.

'And if I fail, you may well succeed in my place.'

That stopped her. There was a short but satisfactory silence behind him. Then her footsteps began again, with renewed determination.

She had been prepared to undertake the chase alone. Why was she surprised that he believed her capable of success? Six months ago, maybe, he would not have done so. But he had learned so much through his journeys in the past; learned that people were capable of the most surprising things.

As he was himself. Here he was, marching across the night sky. Ahead lay the Zodiac. A little over a day earlier he had been leading an attack on a castle, humdrum work indeed; but now he was half-expecting to see one of Orion's hounds come loping up the hillside to his left, and on his right was the immense shoreline of the Hydra's sea, with its waves hushing ceaselessly in serried lines of bright foam.

'The seafire is beautiful,' Christine said after a while; 'I've read about it, in travellers' tales from the Mediterranean, but never seen it till we got here.'

'It's as well it's there,' said Henry; 'it's a dark sky above, not like in the Unicorn's country. We wouldn't see much without it.'

Dark and rather desolate. One or two of the further stars shone almost at the zenith, but out over the ocean were only small isolated spindles and swirls of light; and far away to the east, a three-armed glow, which put him in mind of the triskelion of the Isle of Man.

\- No, he wouldn't think about the Isle of Man. It had been a holding of the Scroop family, one of many belonging to them. He put the thought of the Scroops from his mind, and marched on.

-x-

They were nearing the northern end of the long ridge now, and the ground ahead began to fall away to meet the littoral of the Hydra's sea. The gradient was easy at first, then steepened as the path they were following rolled off the end of the ridge, dropping down among rocks and shrubs and brackens. The soil was more sandy now, and sometimes fell away under their feet. Henry grabbed at a wiry shrub to save himself, and felt suddenly more cheerful when he saw what it was. Even in the half-light of the sky-country it was unmistakeable.

Christine, just behind him, heard him laugh, and asked, 'What?'

He plucked a sprig, and held it up. 'Planta genesta.' The yellow broom-flowers were surely a good omen. He tucked it into the fastening of his cloak. 'Would you like some, too?'

'I thank you, no,' she said tartly, and Henry smiled. He was somewhat out of his depth with this lady, but he'd just scored a minor point.

The air was growing warmer, and when they'd negotiated the last hundred yards or so of the slope, he remarked on this. 'Because we're lower down, perhaps? But the air was cool around the Argo, and that was at sea-level.'

Christine paused in thought for a moment. 'I might be wrong,' - indeed? thought Henry - 'but we're getting close to the ecliptic now, the equator of the night sky. If we draw an analogy between the world below and the night sky, we might expect it to be warmer here. The Argo is a southern constellation after all – and I've never even heard tell of the Mountain or the Flying Fish. They must be closer to the southern pole.'

'We've come a long way, then, since we arrived in the sky-country.'

'Yes – thanks to Jason and his crew! But they understand quests, of course – and Jason understands the tie between a parent and a child.' Marie was never far from her thoughts – and this he could understand, since Montjoy was never far from his. He could feel the talisman, stowed safely away in his cote. When they reached the bay where the Hydra's sea curved round to the east, he would question it again.

-x-

Orion's uplands were far behind them and to their left now, and the last shower of drifting rain slackened off. They descended the last slope of the Little Dog's land and gazed out across a flat landscape; salt-marshes, wandering creeks, and a level turfy plain extending north and east a great distance into the dark. Henry laid the spear on the ground and felt for his talisman; Christine was leafing through the almanac.

'East,' he said, with satisfaction; that tenuous thread linking him and Montjoy was still at work! And they would have easier walking from now on, and a clearer view all round. There were slow-flowing streams enough to provide them with water, but they were not so frequent now as they had been close to rainy Orion. But there were still one or two in sight, winding down from the north. 'What does your map say?'

'Past the Crab's land we come to the Sextant – that's a new one to me, one of those instruments of learning that Nauplius told me of. Beyond that, the Cup and the Crow. And the Hydra's sea to the south all the time; that's a huge domain!' She sighed, shut the book, and put it away. 'It will take an age to reach the other end of it.'

They gazed out across the flat shore-land of the Crab dispiritedly, at its waving grasses and sea-birds, soaring or squabbling in flocks, or probing the wet sands left by a receding tide.

Tide. He looked up. There was the narrow crescent moon, away to the north. What would the Moon look like, up here in the sky? Another question that might never be answered. He pictured a swift goddess, bow in hand, hunting the further reaches of the night.

'We'd best get started,' he said, and they filled their bottles at the stream that seemed to mark the boundary of the Little Dog's domain, and set off.

-x-

Maybe two hours later, they turned the last inlet of the sea. There were great tracts of seaweed on the damp sand, and among them crowds of scuttling crabs. They had come to the sign of Cancer; to the Zodiac.

'This is the ecliptic, the highway of the planetary gods,' said Christine. 'We might encounter more than star-folk here.'

'Friend or foe?'

'They could be either. It depends who we might meet. And you know the tales of the old gods,' and she did not add and how capricious they are but her meaning was plain enough. 'This almanac doesn't chart the planets' movements for each year. We'll need to be wary.'

'Onward, then - warily.'

They turned eastwards along the grassy turf just above the beach, Christine casting thoughtful looks at the crabs below, and made good progress, for they had left the crags and dells of the Little Dog's country behind them. Away to the north, the ground sloped upwards to distant mountains; Christine referred to the sky-map and said, 'The Lynx's country. That's a constellation I’ve not heard of, but Nauplius said he's had news of it from the Twins. And beyond it is the Bear, and further still the Dragon.'

'Here there be dragons,' said Henry grimly. 'Let us hope it doesn't come to that.'

They were getting weary now, as they'd walked for what felt like a very long day. When Christine stumbled over a tussock of grass, Henry said firmly, 'We need to stop and rest. Sleep if we can. There are no great dangers that I can see here – but the Lions' country is next, and though they might be our friends, they're fierce beasts when all's said and done.'

Christine was not eager to rest, but she had to admit the need, and when they came to a cluster of boulders she sank down and rested her back against one of them, though with no good grace. Here they shared food and water. Then Henry climbed the boulders and spied out the land once more, while Christine studied the almanac again.

He clambered back down to her. 'What are you looking for in that?' he asked, indicating the book.

'Anything and everything that may help,' she sighed. 'You've the talisman to lead us to Montjoy, but when we find him – when we find them – what then? If de Rais may be defeated in simple battle, that's all to the good. But if they're in captivity? Might we release them somehow? So I've been hoping to find something that may aid us, but it's more difficult than I'd thought.'

'If anyone can find it, you can.' Henry was determinedly hopeful. 'There must surely be something in there that can help us.'

'May it be so,' she said, laying the book aside.

Then, after reciting the evening prayer, Christine lay down on the springy turf and pulled her cloak over her. She struggled to find a comfortable position, but in the end she dropped into sleep with her head pillowed on her satchel.

Henry stood watch a while, staring into the east under the light of the further stars. Now that he was, to all intents and purposes, alone, the strangeness of their situation threatened to overwhelm him once more. A quest the like of which he had never heard (though God knew the last few months had been strange enough!) But to chase a monster – for de Rais was a monster, not a man – across the sky, though myth and fable and legend... who would ever have thought that his life would bring him to such a point?

And in company with an enemy, who though a woman was formidable by any measure; and in quest of his own true love. But that was the love of a few short weeks only. When he found him (his mind would not countenance if) when he found him, then, would the magic, the love, still be there?

The talisman, made in the name of the Lady Venus, told him that it would. And so, if he were honest with himself, did the memory of the time they'd spent together, and the long dance they had danced before that, from his audience-chamber in London through campaign and battle and magic upon magic.

For so plain a king to end up on so wild a quest!

He smiled a little at the incongruity of it, turned back to the cluster of boulders, and lay down beside Christine de Pisan. The grass, short and wiry, made a comfortable enough bed for a soldier; his cloak kept him warm, and he laid his sword close to hand.

The sound of the waves of the Hydra's sea made a gentle lullaby. He dropped into a doze, as he had done so many times on campaign. For a while the sound of the water sent him drifting back to the camp on Castle Hill, with its rippling stream and rocky slopes. Even in his sleep he was reminded of his loss, for he dreamed of his herald, who had saved them time and again in their struggles to return from the past. He relived kisses, exchanged on starlit evenings in the secret glade at the top of Castle Hill - under different stars from the ones they journeyed among now! - and in his sleep he touched the breast of his cote, where the little scales, talisman of Venus, of true love, were safely tucked away.

-x-

Hours later, he was half-woken by a soft noise of some sort. He raised himself, sleep-filled and groggy, and gazed around; got up and made his way to the other side of the little knot of boulders, hand on sword-hilt.

Nothing. But there was the noise again, a quiet cooing. Pigeons? Doves? Surely not. He continued round the clustered rocks. The night was wide and dark around him; the moon had set. But there was enough light from the further stars that when he reached the southern side of the boulders, he could see the Hydra's ocean; and there, stepping softly towards him across the waves, was a woman!

A quick breath in, a quick breath out. He stared.

She was dressed in a sheer silken gown embroidered with flowers, her golden hair blowing in an invisible wind, star-foam about her feet. On her head was a delicate crown with a blue gem, shining with its own light. Doves flirted in the air above her. Yes, it was the doves that had made the noise he heard. Transfixed, he gazed at her as she approached, smiling at him, gentle and seductive as a summer evening. He could not imagine a more beautiful woman.

'King of England,' she said, and stepped lightly onto the turf in front of him. Her voice was all that her appearance promised.

He knelt, and bent his head. He had not done this for years, not for anyone other than God and His Son.

Her hand touched his shoulder like an accolade. Warmth spread through him. 'Get up, get up, King Henry. We have no time for that. I must be on my way.'

'My Lady.' He stood with bent head, then dared a glance at her.

She smiled. 'Do you know me, then?'

'With such beauty, I think you can be none other than the Lady Venus.'

'Good. Then we know each other. And you are here in the service of love, which is my domain.'

'Love, yes,' and he stammered a little, 'though – your pardon, Lady! - not for any woman.'

'That matters not, King Henry. You seek your true love, do you not? So Rumour has told me. Love is my charge; and you and and your beloved have called on me before, so long ago that I was scarce aware of myself.'

'Yes. Yes, we did. But now our enemy has him. Lady, I fear for him.' He fumbled in the breast of his cote for the copper scales. 'I have this. I hoped it would lead me to him. But the sky is so wide and strange. To tell the truth, I hardly know where to turn.'

She took the talisman from him, and cast a critical eye over it. 'It is well made. You have my signs there, and a little of each of you. It will serve.' She stroked her fingers over the gem in the fulcrum, and it glowed with a faint spark of its own light. 'Now, Henry, prepare to go on your way. You have a great evil to defeat. Remember, yours is not the only love here. There is a mother's lost child too. I would not have you forget her.'

'No, Lady, I will not,' he whispered, and she smiled.

'Here comes the mother herself,' she said, and Henry glanced round, and there indeed was Christine, coming round the knot of boulders, with a hand on the hilt of her dagger.

'I heard voices - ' she said, and stopped short at the sight of the Lady Venus.

'Christine. Welcome,' said the goddess, and when Christine curtsied low, laughed, drew her to her feet and kissed her cheek. 'Be of good cheer. If the tales I’ve been hearing are true, you've a great way to travel yet – but you've a fine knight at your side, and a will strong enough to surmount any number of obstacles.'

'Tales, my Lady? If I may ask - '

'Rumour has it that your enemy called on Discordia, and she answered him. She'll cause trouble if she can! And Rumour also says that they went east, and are hidden in some fastness there. But your daughter was alive and whole when they reached that place, and had a good friend at her side. I think they mean to use your love to lure you to them; be bold, but take care!'

'I can do both, my Lady,' said Christine firmly.

'The friend. My herald?' asked Henry almost at the same time.

'Yes, your herald. Take heart, be strong, and you'll win through!' She smiled at him. 'Now. I can delay no longer. I must be on my way. As above, so below, and it would not do for the planets to halt in their courses. You will meet others on your travels; some will be your friends, and some not. Be careful! Christ and His Mother be your aid!' She touched his cheek with warm fingers, and smiled to see him blush, and trod serenely up into the air, accompanied by her doves, leaving star-foam briefly in her wake, and a departing scent of violets.

'Lady, farewell!' called Henry, and she half-turned and blew him a kiss.

Shaken to the core, he stood clutching the little scales, gazing at the soft-gleaming figure; then braced himself. It was a wonder beyond wonders that they had encountered her; but he had work to do.

'Well, we have our marching orders,' he said. 'East. And they're together. It could be worse.'

'Yes,' she answered, the smile dying from her face. 'It could be worse.'

And he mentally kicked himself, but said, 'We may as well take it that it's morning,' though the sky was as dark as ever. 'I don't know about you, but I won't get back to sleep now. Come, eat, and we'll be on our way.'

He was not hungry, but forced himself to eat some bread and an apricot from his satchel. Sitting on a handy rock, he tried to assess the reason for his reluctance to eat, and after a little thought, found it.

'This darkness.' He gestured round at the perpetual deep twilight of the sky-country, at the muted colours close by, fading to grey or silver further off. 'It saps my sense of time. My body thinks it's still the middle of the night.'

Christine considered this. 'Yes, it's hard to keep track. It's been, what, two days now?'

'Two sleeps, at any rate, though I think the time we spent on Argo was morning by our reckoning. Well, the English winter is dark enough, but this perpetual night is beyond my experience – though I have a Scottish captain who says that in the far north the sun hardly rises at all in the winter.'

'Close to the Pole, yes.'

'It's one reason why he came south, he says. And after a couple of – days – of this, I can hardly blame him.'

Reluctant though his stomach was to accept the food, he made himself finish it, stood, and tried the talisman again. The blue gem still glowed with a soft light at the pivot, and nudged him, eye and heart and mind, a little south of east now.

'Along the shores of the sea.' Christine traced the heading across the map. Then, deliberately, 'Your true love lies that way.'

Henry cocked an eyebrow at her as he stowed the talisman away. So she wanted to have the conversation, then?

'The Lady Venus has found me out,' he remarked, 'and who am I to dissemble in the face of her wisdom?' He slung his satchel over his shoulder. 'But I knew it anyway, long before now. And so did you, I think.'

They started their new march, Christine groaning softly to her herself at first, then moving more easily. 'I wondered, all that time we were crossing France. You were driven. I could see it in everything you did. Oh, you gave reasons of policy, but you were afraid the whole time.'

Should he tell her that he was always afraid, that the demands of kingship, that ate up men, well-nigh consumed him too? No. Montjoy knew, and his closest kinsmen. Scroop had known, and used it against him. No-one else would ever know.

'It was not my love for Montjoy alone that drove me, you may be sure of that.'

'But he was the real reason you were afraid.'

'Yes. You would move mountains for your daughter. You would have done the same for your husband. So I, with Montjoy.'

'And Princess Katherine?'

'She was afraid, too - and of me. Since we were to be wed, and at the time I could not in all conscience back down from that, I made the best of it that I could. We spoke only for that brief half-hour in the palace at Troyes. She lost her fear of me – and I of her, perhaps! But I do not think her heart will be broken after so short an acquaintance. And God knows, so sweet a lady deserves better than the half-heart I could give her! She was willing enough to do her father's bidding, and will not go short of a husband now that I'm gone from the picture.'

'A sweet lady indeed, and a sorrowful. If you knew the tale of her early life... I was tutor to them all for a while, you know. Her father's malady struck before she was born. The factions fought over her; she was Queen Isabeau's pawn. All the children were, for while.'

He listened in some discomfiture as Christine told the tale; the royal children half-abandoned at St-Pol, scratching for food while their mother spun her plots; their abduction in company with the Duke of Burgundy's son and their rescue; and always, death after death from one cause or another. No wonder Katherine had been willing to listen to his clumsy attempts at wooing her – and if Christine had been tutor to her, no wonder she had held her own in that wooing!

He said slowly, 'I suppose it could have been a happy enough marriage. But she would have married King Henry, not Henry of Monmouth.'

'And Montjoy?'

Something in the two names, so close together, lit a small spark in his mind, but he put it aside for a moment. 'Broken-hearted, like me. You saw that.'

'Yet he refused to go to England with you anyway.'

'He would not consent to it. Would not agree to share my bed when I should have been with Katherine.'

'Ah, that's like him. You're lucky, Henry of Monmouth. I hope you know that?'

'Of course I know.'

'For many a gentlewoman at court would have been happy to catch his eye, but he was always a little elusive. His travels were his outward excuse, but I saw a little deeper.' She laughed. 'Well, maybe some of the other ladies saw what I saw; we watch, because it's so hard for us to act.'

Henry tried to imagine having to do that, but could not. 'And I act, because I cannot do otherwise.'

'O, poor king.' Friendly-mocking, as though she were testing how far he would let her go.

'Be thankful you do not share that condition, madame,' he said, mock-chidingly in his turn. 'You have perhaps ten people in your little ship, to steer through rough seas. Magnify that ten thousand times, and then ten more, and still you do not know how great is the ship of state.'

That stopped her. She seemed to look inward for a moment (perhaps doing arithmetic in her head?) then shook herself, and said, 'No wonder you're like a boy on an adventure, a knight on a quest. There are few tales of Arthur's deeds, once he became king, are there?'

'No. But I've had adventures enough in my lifetime, and never more so than in the last few months.'

'When you found your true love, in the proper chivalric tradition.'

'Oh, I'd found him long since, but could not speak of it – no, I've no wish to end up in one of your books, so don't look at me like that!' For her expression had suddenly turned thoughtful, and she acknowledged his insight with what could only be called a wry grin. 'But yes, back there in the past we had our chance.'

'Tell me. Tell me what you did there – oh, not with him,' as Henry gave her a mock-reproving look. 'But you've seen wonders that I can barely guess at. I would love to hear more of them.'

Henry swept an open hand slowly round at the twilit sky-country that surrounded them – the shore-lands of the Crab, the short turf across which they marched, the sands and the rock-pools and the winding creeks, to point out that they were surrounded by wonders beyond imagination, and she laughed a little. But then he told her something of their adventures, and of Montjoy, Montjoy woven like a bright thread through all. He said little of how they'd unpicked her father's spell, but spoke rather of the blue moon in the land of the sail-backs, of their flight from the comet and the killing of the tyrant (at which she went to speak, but prudently held her tongue) and of the little tiger-cubs that Montjoy had rescued. At which she laughed again, and said, 'So like him!'

'Yes. He missed them dreadfully after we came back, and so do I. If we win through, I'll find him another pair of cubs, maybe lynxes from Norway, since it would be difficult to have tigers or lions roaming about the palace in Westminster...' He smiled at the idea of two lynx-cubs, stealing their bedding as Fierce and Scar had done. 'But I'm running ahead of myself. Even if we win this battle, he might still think it his duty to stay in France, after all – though not if I can persuade him otherwise!

'Well, we fought our way back from the cubs' home, through earthquake and flood, and found ourselves in Brittany, on the north coast there. I thought our troubles were over, and I was wrong. We said our farewells, there at St-Malo,' and now both he and Christine were blinking back tears.

And for the first time, she reached out and tentatively took his hand. 'We'll find them. God is surely with us; we'll win through.'

He returned the clasp of her fingers, and forced a smile. 'Yes, we will.'

-x-

The tide of the Hydra's sea was at the low of the ebb, and as they went on eastwards, great tracts of sands were uncovered on their right, to the delight of the foraging crabs. Henry glanced that way now and then. Where was the Hydra, he wondered? Lurking somewhere in the depths, or at the other end of its immense ocean? He had faced and fought monsters enough in the last few months, but the Hydra had given even Hercules pause, and Henry was very aware that he was no Hercules.

The ground began to rise slowly to a grassy plain, dotted with trees, which reminded him again of the land around Castle Hill, long ago in the past. They must be crossing the far south-western corner of the Lions' country now; would he meet with them, and what would they say or do? Though to be sure, he'd behaved well enough towards those tiger-cubs and their pride, and that might count in his favour. He smiled again at his memories; how quickly they'd ingratiated themselves! How Montjoy had loved them!

But no Lions appeared. The grass gradually thinned out and was replaced by sand, covered here and there with mats of small flowers. Up ahead was long slow slope, and at its crest was a strange shape – a tall triangle, shining softly golden of its own light.

'What is it?' he asked Christine, his voice low.

'The Sextant. Another constellation we don't know, but Nauplius told me of it.'

Climbing up the slope towards it, they could see that it was mounted on a frame of heavy timbers which lifted it high above their heads; and it pointed at the further stars, a glowing spindle prominent among them. The instrument itself was huge, twice as tall again as the frame, and was a sixth-segment of a circle, made of some metal which looked like brass. Henry, peering up at it from the footing of the framework, saw there were gradations marked along its lower edge.

Foreboding filled him. So very like the hourglass, the key to the spell that had sent them hurtling into the past. Surely it could not be coincidence that the Sextant looked so very alike?

And his suspicions were soon confirmed. 'What's that?' Christine pointed at something small lying half-hidden in a patch of vegetation, and went over hastily and picked it up. 'Not a sextant. It's a quadrant, and a very fine one. What's it doing here?' She brought it back, examining it as she did so.

A moment later, she reached his side, and he could see that it was a quarter-circle of some golden metal, a hand-span across. There was a grid of some sort incised upon it, following the curved edge, and Roman numerals. Two tiny tubes were aligned down one side. Henry stared at it. It too had gradations marked on the curving edge. The metal, he was sure, was brass. He drew in his breath, and swiftly crossed himself.

She turned it over, and he flinched. There in the angle was a familiar heraldic device, unexpected in this place: a chained stag.

'What is it?' he whispered, though he believed he knew.

'It's a quadrant. You can tell the time by it, when the sun is up. You sight through these tubes, and the hours are marked along the edge. It's a very fine one; it must have been made for someone important.' Her finger traced over the stag. 'Why is it here, though? We haven't seen the sun here.' She held it out to him. 'What do you make of it?'

'No.' He took half a step back.

'What? Why not?' Surprised, she stared at him for a moment, then glanced down at the quadrant. It gleamed dully in the half-light of the sky-country.

'I’ve – seen something like this before. It was very evil. It crawled in my hand. It sickened me.'

'King Henry.' She took his arm and shook it, her eyes suddenly hard. He did not back away further, but stood his ground, glaring. 'I’ll have none of this. You survived your last encounter with such a thing Therefore you'll survive this. It may lead us to de Rais.' Her voice rose. 'To Marie. Take it!' She snatched at his hand, slammed the quadrant into it, and horrors took him.

All the visions crowded back that he had fought when he held the hourglass. He cried out, closing his eyes, his arms going up to shut out the sights. They were within his head and he could not escape them. He fell to his knees, calling 'God! God!' Not only those familiar horrors, but new ones too. King Richard, whom his father had murdered – for the stag was his – and yet more malice.

For there was Henry Scroop. A smiling face, a kiss from full lips, sweet love-words breathed into his ear. An intimate touch, confident and knowing, working his body, which responded eagerly. He cried out in remembered ecstasy and new revulsion. Fell in a huddle on the sandy ground, curled in a ball, the quadrant burning his hand, for he could not loose it – and as his body coiled tighter on itself he felt the little copper scales inside his cote dig into his breast.

Montjoy.

God.

He felt the ghost of the cross he had drawn on his body.

Panting, he crossed himself again, then worked one hand – the hand with the silver ring – into the cote, and touched the scales. There they were, tiny, warm against his thudding heart. His own beloved, who had carried the hourglass safely through the past; who had finally healed the wound Henry Scroop had dealt him.

His heartbeat slowed. His breathing steadied.

Something splashed on his face. Tears, perhaps. No, there was too much for tears. It was cool and fresh, not bitter salt. It brought him back to himself. He opened his eyes and slowly uncurled himself, groaning, and at last he could open his hand. The quadrant fell with a soft thump onto the sand.

Christine was kneeling down beside him, water-bottle in hand. Her eyes, wide and anxious, met his. 'King Henry? I am sorry. Truly, I am. I didn't know...'

'I meant it, madame, when I said that thing was evil,' he responded stiffly. 'Give me that bottle,' and she passed it across to him and he took a long drink. The water steadied him, brought him back to himself. He handed it back and sat up fully, sighing.

Christine sat beside him, trying not to hover anxiously; her hands kept fluttering towards him and every time she pulled them back. He remembered wryly that she had been married for ten years. She knew to be wary around hurt men.

'That quadrant is the key to the spell,' he stated, making his explanation insultingly simple. 'We had something like it in our journeys through the past. Your father, madame, magicked it, but lost it to one of my men. So we mastered it and turned it to our own needs; my chaplain and I, and my friends. It nearly felled me. This was as bad.'

She waited.

'Do you know how these things came to have so great a power?' he asked.

'No. To me, it's just a brass quadrant. I’ve seen many such, though none so fine.'

'Then I say to you, lady, that others than you have lost children. Children have died, and horribly.'

He mouth opened. She looked around wildly, and was halfway to her feet when Henry caught her arm and dragged her back. 'We'll find her, if she's with Montjoy. But you have to stay with me to do that.'

'My father! My father would not harm children!'

'No. I believe you. But de Rais would. I know that now. So he took your children to have a hold over your father.'

'And Montjoy? Why did he take him?'

'Who knows? Maybe he guessed that Montjoy brought us home from the past. Maybe he guessed at the affection that lies between us, and planned to control me that way. For I would brook no chaos in France if I became king there. The nobles would toe the line, like it or not.'

She was silent for a moment, then said quietly, 'You called out another name just now.'

Henry sighed, and looked away, though her knew her question was not prurient but solely directed at finding her daughter. He knew which name he'd called. 'Scroop.' The memory of that knowing hand stirred him again; but at least he had not utterly disgraced himself. His climax had been remembered only, not actual, yet it had been humiliating enough. His cry of joy, of fulfilment, still echoed in his ears - and she had heard it too.

'Your lover, who betrayed you,' she said. 'Oh, don't look like that. I lived at court. I heard the tales.'

'Is there anyone in the world who doesn't know?' he asked bitterly. 'Yes, we were lovers. I thought I’d found my soul-mate, and he betrayed me and tried to cut my throat, and I had him publicly hanged. That's all you need to know about Henry Scroop.'

'No. We need to know more. What connection did he have with this?' She picked up the quadrant.

Henry eyed it grimly. It looked so innocent in her hand, a small, beautiful thing, with its couched stag. 'King Richard,' he said.

'Your father deposed him and had him killed.' Henry winced. But Christine continued, indifferent to a foreign king's suffering, 'What of it?'

'Richard was interested in magic. In geomancy and astrology. When I returned with him from Ireland, Scroop's father met us with the news of my father's landing, I could see that Sir Stephen was sorely distressed.' He remembered it well, though he'd been little more than a boy – landing at the haven with the remnants of Richard's army, the grim castle watching over them, and the Yorkshireman almost in tears. 'Sir Stephen was with the king when he died. They say he wept. That he was inconsolable. And maybe – maybe – Richard gave him a keepsake.' He eyed the quadrant.

Christine tilted it in her hands, staring at it as though to drag its secrets from it by the power of her gaze. She asked slowly, 'Are you saying that you're not the first king to have a member of that family as a lover?'

'How can I tell? But from Richard, to Stephen Scroop, to Henry Scroop, to France; that's not so hard a chain to follow. I sent the son' – even now he disliked speaking his name - 'to France often enough. So his treachery must be older even than I thought. Well, I found him out, and he's long gone. But his malice, and maybe theirs, is in that thing.'

He scrubbed his hands over his face. 'No matter now. We need to take it with us. Keep it with you, and study it; that's what Montjoy did with your father's damned hourglass.' She winced. 'Yes, my lady, we mastered that, between us, and unspoke the spell he made. And I’ve broken that thing too now, though it did its best to break me. Ask yourself what you would have done next, if I’d been witless and grovelling now, as it wanted.'

'My lord, again, I am sorry.' Chagrin in her voice, and she could not meet his eyes.

'You could not know. You fear for your daughter. But think before you act, next time.'

She offered the quadrant to him tentatively, but he said, 'I don't want it. Put it away,' and he felt easier as soon as it was in her satchel and out of his sight.

'I need to rest now,' he said. 'And eat, too.' His tone indicated that he would brook no argument.

After half an hour or so, he felt able to continue, and heaved himself to his feet. They began to descend the long desert slope beyond the Sextant, in a silence that was far from companionable.

x-

A breeze sprang up, blowing into their faces from the east. It was not cold, as were the east winds he was used to, but mild, even balmy, and it came and went in a slow pulse. And, gazing ahead, he could see that they seemed to be approaching the lip of a cliff.

'We might be able to see more when we reach it,' he observed, and hastened forward -

\- then halted as he realised that the sand beneath his feet was behaving oddly. It didn't give, as sand usually did, but skittered away. He put out his arm to stay Christine, and scuffed at the sand with one toe while keeping his weight on the other foot. Just as well he did, for the sand was not half an inch deep; just the thinnest of tissues over -

'Get back!' He hustled them both back a few paces, lowered the spear-head to where they had been standing, and scraped at the sand with it. Beneath the moving blade there was nothing but a black void.

'What's this?' he demanded.

'I – I don't know!'

'There must be something in your almanac that tells you.' He peered forwards again, at the thin screed of white sand, the nothingness beneath. He probed with the spear at arm's length. No resistance. 'What have we been walking on?'

Again they retreated a few steps, and cast quick, nervous glances around. No, the sand was firm beneath their feet now; Henry dug in with the spear-head, and found as solid ground as he might expect. 'Well?'

She fumbled through the almanac. 'Here. We're here, at the edge of the Cup, and the Crow's beyond.'

'So?'

She passed a hand over her hair distractedly. 'The story is that Apollo sent the Crow to fetch him a cup of water. But the Crow delayed, because he waited for a fig growing by the spring to ripen before he flew back. So these constellations are perhaps domains of air, rather than of land or of water? And thus we find air instead of sand or sea. Perhaps. I am guessing.'

'Air. We cannot cross air. I’d become a little too used to this place. I’d become complacent.' He looked around. To their right was a long slope, falling away to the Hydra's sea; to their left, plains of sand and grass climbing up through the Lions' country to the mountains of the Bear. 'A way round. We need a way round. What are the choices?'

'North; the Lions and the Maiden. That's a long way out of our way, if we want to go south-east. But to the south is the Hydra's sea.'

'There's a shoreline, though. Perhaps we could make our way along that. We'll go south.' And he turned to his right, and set off towards the sea, not too far distant, and Christine trudged along half a step behind, silent once more.

His feet were reluctant to tread too heavily: left-right, left-right, he was padding rather than marching, half-expecting to have the sand drop away under them. But nothing happened, and after a while he began to trust the ground again, and from then on the going was less tiring.

Half an hour or so later, they stood once more on the shore of the sea and looked eastwards. The tide was coming in again, and the water had risen across the wide expanse of sands. There were inlets and bays – but as far as Henry could see, the coastline was intact, right past the airy realms of the Cup and the Crow.

'I'll test it,' he said. 'We may have to wade here and there, but the water looks shallow enough. Wait there,' and he waded out, spear in hand, ready to probe for hidden pools. The water around his legs lit with seafire.

The first fifty yards were easy, but then he came to a sheet of gleaming wavelets that extended – well, he could not call it 'inland' since there was no land there but an empty void instead. He tried not to think about that, and stood at the edge of the inlet, and prodded with the spear.

'It seems safe enough,' he said.

'Be careful,' called Christine, and he grunted acknowledgement and said, 'Yes, I’ll do that,' and went forward, testing his way step by step.

It went well enough to start with, but then he must have stepped over a sand-bar. The bottom dropped out of the inlet and he plunged forward, up to his waist in salt water, his neck, and under -

Desperately he fought his way upward again, gasped as his head broke the surface - and something struck his hip, throwing him off balance, spinning him dizzyingly round. He lost the spear. Christine yelled something, he didn't know what. Salt water was in his eyes, down his throat, up his nose. He spluttered and gagged. The thing – please God not the Hydra! - surged towards him and struck him again. This time it bunched its back, lifted him clean out of the water.

Wild thoughts of Exeter's battle with Jenny Greenteeth flashed through his mind. He hit the surface with a crash. It struck the air from him, pain buffeting all along one side, and he went under again. He clenched his teeth, and refused to gasp. His arms and legs moved feebly. His ears rang. The sword dragged at his hip, his armour, light as it was, at his body.

Something punched his arm. He opened his eyes. In the boiling gloom, lit by swirling seafire, he saw a long muscled shape barrel past him. It turned, and came at him again. He flailed upwards, and his head broke the surface. Now he could gasp, the water slopping into his mouth, but he had air.

He kicked, and though he could not draw his sword in time, his hand found his dagger's hilt. He lunged round in the water, ducked his face down, and saw the creature coming at him again in a mass of bubbles. He struck out. His arm was near-wrenched out of its socket, and he lost the dagger as the creature made off. He clawed desperately at his sword-hilt.

Away to one side he heard Christine shouting. 'Lord Dolphin! Spare him, I beg! It is a Frenchwoman that asks it!'

Lord Dolphin. The Dolphin!

The creature paused. From his position low down in the water he saw it hulking against the sky. It was huge, its head and back armoured, not like the sleek creatures of his own seas.

'Why should I spare him, woman?' A whistling, piercing voice.

'He's our enemy, I know – but we have an understanding, he and I! We go to find my daughter – she is French – and his own true love, who is French also!'

A breathing-space. Henry trod water, his head in a whirl. Christine was trying to save him. Now she too waded into the sea. 'There's none but him to help me – and he's honourable by the code of men, my lord.'

'Honourable? You've a strange idea of honour. He invaded our land and slaughtered our people! He humiliated my own liege-man!'

'Who taunted him and insulted him! I cannot explain or excuse men to you, Lord Dolphin! But we must go on, he and I. I cannot do this alone!'

An impatient hiss. The Dolphin reared high, seafire streaming off its flanks, and crashed back into the water. Shining spray, hard as hail, fell on Henry. His feet touched bottom, and soon he was standing chest-deep, and keeping very quiet. He began to edge back to the shore, letting the waves carry him, resisting the back-wash each time. Christine seemed to have the situation well in hand.

The Dolphin suddenly whirled in the water, and spoke directly to him. 'You! Invader! Why should I let you pass, tell me that?'

'Lord Dolphin.' He was at disadvantage, barely keeping his footing as waves surged past him every few heartbeats. If the creature came for him again he would have to try to kill it. 'Always, always I do what I must; my duty for my people and to uphold my honour. God would not be pleased with me if I failed in that. Do you ask the lords of France why they failed their people?'

Another hiss. 'Do not bandy words with me, Englishman!' It gathered itself for another charge. Henry dragged his sword from its sheath, and held it before him under the water, clenched in both hands.

Christine was waist-deep now. She called out again. 'I beg you, listen to me, Lord Dolphin! If you kill him, I'll go on alone, and as like as not I'll fail. The evil man who took my daughter will prey on the children of France and there will be none to stop him. Let this man go. He is learning. He's a good man, by his lights. Just stupid!'

Henry blinked, but held his peace. The Dolphin's tail churned the surface, but it did not charge. Maybe it was wary of doing so. He could see a gash in its side. He must have inflicted that.

'I will have your word, Englishman! If I listen to this lady's prayers, you will cease your invasion of France. And you will destroy this wicked man.'

'I have already given the order for the withdrawal, Lord Dolphin. And I will do my utmost to destroy de Rais. You may be very sure of that.'

'Do not fail!'

'No, lord.'

The Dolphin turned its back on him. There was a whistling intake of breath, and it dived. Its armoured tail slapped the water with a resounding boom, and it was gone.

Henry sheathed his sword, gasping, and toiled back towards Christine, reaching her when they were both knee-deep in white-capped waves. He clasped her arm in gratitude. 'Madame. Thank-you.'

'I will hold you to it, you know.'

'No need. I meant every word.'

'Yes, you did. Come. We're safer on shore.' And half-supporting each other, they made it to the beach, and just managed not to collapse on the sand.

Christine wrung the water out of her chiton, stray gleams falling from it, while Henry did his best with his own garments, and ran his hands over his face and hair. So fortunate that they'd left their packs on the beach while he tested their way. He wiped his sword, and tipped the scabbard up to empty it. It would take forever to dry, even though the sky-country was not cold; its perpetual shadowy dimness had no great heat in it either.

'He was an invader himself, you know,' said Christine after a while, drying herself as best she could with her cloak.

'Hmm?'

'The Dolphin. This is not his domain. It's the Hydra's sea, after all. He really should not have been here. That's why he was so willing to go.'

'It isn't that I frightened him off, then!'

She eyed him. 'I didn't say that.'

Henry felt his self-esteem puff up a little. After all, he had killed the tyrant – a dragon, near enough – as he and his retinue had fled the comet, but he'd had help to do that. The Lord Dolphin he had driven off himself. He smiled a little, and Christine acknowledged it with a smile of her own; a smile which asked if they could once more be allies, and he nodded reassuringly at her in return.

'Well, madame, it seems I have you to thank for my life.'

She said, with a certain giddiness, 'I believe you may call me Christine, after all we've been through.'

He knew an olive-branch when he saw it. 'Then I am Henry, while we're in the sky-country at least.'

'Well. Henry.' Christine smiled at him, relief plain in her face. 'What now?'

He glanced around him, at the impassable sea and the impassable void, and gave the smallest of sighs. 'Climb the dunes. See if we can make our way to the north. We'll have to try the route through the Lions' country after all.'

Christine groaned, but there was nothing else to be done.

They collected their satchels and slung them over their shoulders. Then they headed across the sand towards the dunes, to see what could be seen before they began the long march towards the Maiden's territory. All the way back, half a day lost. 'We must hurry,' she said wretchedly.

-x-

The dunes reared up before them, covered in straggling growth, perhaps twenty feet high. A tiring trudge to the top in their wet clothes, and long hours of marching ahead of them thereafter. 'We're not done for until we say we are,' said Henry; 'not till we say we are. Don't despair.'

They began to plod up the slope. A wind sprang up from the north; another breath from the Crow, maybe – or perhaps the beating of its wings?

And then there was a rush and a drumming of hooves on the beach behind them. Henry whirled round.

'Hola!' cried a mighty voice.

'What now..?' said Henry, instantly regretting the loss of the spear; but his hand smacked down onto his sword-hilt instead.

Down the firm sand of the beach came a chariot, drawn by two black horses, clumps of sand flying up behind them. The driver of the chariot was dressed in a red tunic, with antique armour and weaponry, and had a high-crested helmet on his head.

'Well met, little king!' he greeted him, and Henry stared, because he knew who this was. The chariot threw a long roaring curve across the beach, and drew to a halt just beneath them, the horses blowing and stamping, champing on their golden bits. Henry made no move to draw his sword, but stepped just half a pace in front of Christine, who made an impatient noise but prudently stayed where she was.

The driver laughed. 'Have no fear, little king, nor you, madame.' He grinned up at them where they stood on the slope of the dunes, and pulled off his helmet, putting it under one arm while the other hand held the traces. His hair, all damp with sweat, and his beard were dark, and his eyes were fierce but good-humoured. 'My Lady sent word that you were journeying in the sky-country. It's her command that I aid you against this evil man you pursue; for it's my help that you will need now, not hers. So I say: mount up, and I will take you on your way!'

'Lord Mars,' said Henry, finally able to speak. They descended the last few feet of the dunes, and he knelt. Behind him Christine curtseyed low.

'Oh, have done, man! And, lady, we may have had our differences in the past, you and I' - Christine gave a little gasp - 'but I think none the worse of you for that! You are a fighter too, in your own way. And in some ways, your pen is more to be feared than my sword!' He threw back his head, and laughed again, in delight at his own wit. The horses stamped and sidled as the sound buffeted around them, and even Henry flinched just a little.

'Now, there's no time for delay. Up you get, King Harry, good lady. I’ll take you with me, as far as I may. There's room enough, it you don't mind being a little cramped.' And he shoved to one side his oblong shield, which was propped up against the chariot's walls, made sure his great spear was secure in its clamps, and put his helmet back on his head.

'Sir, we thank you,' said Henry, finding his voice once more. Mars was a far more overwhelming presence than the Lady Venus had been. He knew, and was ashamed to know, that this was how his opponents on the battlefield had felt, and it was with bowed head that he approached the step of the chariot and climbed into it. For he would not allow a woman to go first, not with this charioteer. Then he turned to help Christine, but Mars chuckled knowingly, reached down his hand and fairly lifted her in. With three of them crammed in together, it was indeed a tight fit, and the great body of the god radiated heat. Henry felt the chill of the sea begin to recede.

'Now, friends, brace yourselves, and hold tight!' Lord Mars shook the traces, the horses took the strain eagerly, and the chariot lurched and began to move. Faster and faster, the hooves pounding, the wheels roaring, and suddenly the noise and vibration stopped. They were moving faster still. Below them the beach dropped away. They were high as a castle tower.

'Oh!' Henry and Christine clutched at each other; the void beneath the open back of the chariot tugged at him. But he could see the shoreline, and the wide expanse of water, and a dark country far beyond. Suddenly he found himself grinning; then he laughed aloud in delight.

'You like my chariot?' Mars said over his shoulder.

Christine made an inarticulate noise. She was hunched into the curve of the tall shield. Henry's arm was the only barrier between her and the empty air. Indeed, both his hands clutched the chariot's rim with an unbreakable determination. But he spoke the simple truth when he replied, 'My lord, I do! I could wish for one like it!' The wind tugged at his hair and made his eyes water; he could have sworn he saw the further stars move above them.

Mars laughed, and shook the traces again. 'On, my beauties! Show them your paces!' The horses snorted, and stretched out their necks, and their hooves pounded the empty air. Now they were higher than a cathedral's steeple, flying level, and Henry felt able to risk more than a glance over the side. Below, there was a surge of shining spray as some giant creature surfaced and dived. Some way ahead of it was a smaller shape, arrowing fast through the water. Were they the Hydra and the Dolphin? Would they battle it out, down there in the Hydra's sea? He was very glad to be out of that watery realm, and moving in the higher airs of the sky-country.

'Where are we going, my lord?'

'Beyond the sea, to the country of the Scales. That is as far as my orbit may take me. Then I must return to my patrol. Duty calls, little king, you know that!'

'I know indeed. But, if I may ask, what duties..?'

'There are hazards in the sky-country. Monsters aplenty; oh, there's no harm in the Dolphin, he has a grudge against you and you've earned his enmity. The Lions might be your friend, King Harry, should you stray back into their realm. But there are others that I’ve fought on earth, and will fight again here. We all have our parts to play. As you have in the world below.'

'Must men always have their wars? Will the fighting never end?' asked Christine bitterly.

'Never, madame. You know that. There are always battles. Not always on the field of war.' He sounded neither regretful nor jubilant; merely stating a fact. Christine turned aside, making a soft noise of pain.

'We must be glad that you fight the monsters for us!' said Henry.

'Some I cannot fight. Only those within my orbit. You go hunting one I cannot reach for now. Be sure you do your task well, little king!'

'I intend to,' said Henry grimly, one soldier to another, and Mars nodded, and stood a little taller to see over the horses' heads; 'There lies our destination! Hold on tightly now!' and Henry, craning over the side of the chariot, saw the dark land ahead tilt up before them. The horses were descending, galloping down an invisible plane in the heavens. Low hills rose up to greet them; Henry and Christine exchanged nervous looks, clutched the rim of the chariot even harder, and braced themselves.

The wheels touched, bounced, touched again. The two of them staggered, were thrown against each other; Mars, standing solid as a rock, cried 'Whooooa!' and the horses slowed to a canter, a trot. The chariot's mad passage was done.

Mars reached over its side, applied a brake, and they halted. He turned back to his passengers. 'Well, my friends. This is as far as I can take you. I’ve overshot my orbit as it is, and must get back to my patrol. But this is the country of the Scales, and you'll be safe enough here. The Maiden's domain is that-away,' and he gestured with his strong right arm, a vambrace gleaming dull gold upon it. 'She'll treat you justly, if you should stray into her land. But there's bad country further ahead, especially if you need to turn further to the south. The Scorpion, and the Wolf.'

Christine alighted from the chariot to give herself more room, and Henry jumped down after her. She was already thumbing through the almanac.

Mars leaned over the side of the chariot and looked at it with interest, but – 'Nay, I cannot read,' he admitted cheerfully. 'But keep to the north, if you can. The Serpent-Bearer is a good man, though he's a trifle autocratic for my liking! And you've nothing to fear in the lands of the Arrow or the Shield, King Harry. How far you may have to go is anybody's guess. You may meet some of my brothers and sisters along the way; some may aid you, others not. Take heed. Trust in the God of Hosts - and look to each other.'

'We will, my lord. And thank-you.' Christine curtseyed, and Mars acknowledged it by reaching down for her hand, and kissing it most gallantly.

'Yes, thank-you. You've saved us a long, long march,' said Henry.

'It's been my pleasure: we have so few visitors from the world below! Good fortune go with you both. Be strong and resolute, and you'll win through. And when you return to the world below – tend to your own fields, King Harry. That is your first duty.'

'I know it now, sir.'

Mars grinned at him, threw him a salute, to which Henry responded, and shouted 'Hup!' to his team. They trotted, bunched their muscles, dug in their hooves, and were off, faster, faster, and up, back the way they had come.

Henry and Christine cried their farewells, and watched, fascinated, as the chariot and its mighty driver vanished into the higher airs of the sky-country. Christine still looked a little shaky. Henry, on the other hand, felt much invigorated, and the clamminess of the sea had entirely receded.

'Well, let's make a start! We've a way to go yet. Show me your map again!'

The book was forgotten in her hand, but she found the place, and pointed out their present position; in the land of the Scales. 'Once through Libra, we must turn north to the Serpent-Bearer's country, then back south again to the Archer, if that's where the talisman tells you to go.'

Henry made trial of it again. 'Yes.' He peered at the almanac. 'But that's a long detour we have to make to the north – and Lord Mars said that the Serpent-Bearer is autocratic. I'm not sure I like the sound of that.'

Christine smiled. 'The Serpent-Bearer is Aesculapius himself. All doctors like to issue orders, have you not noticed that yourself?' Henry had a brief memory of Dr. Colnet, telling him to rest, to take this evil-tasting draught or that, and smiled too. 'Lord Mars and he might not see eye to eye on many subjects. I think he might not object to us, though.'

'And yet.' Henry looked again at the map. There was a long, narrow strip of the Scorpion's domain, that lay right in their way; beyond this strip, the safer land of Aesculapius. 'If we took a short cut here, we could save ourselves hours, perhaps.' His finger traced the straight road.

Christine was not quite so sure. 'The Scorpion. The beast that killed Orion. We know its main star as Antares, a rival to Mars himself.' She glanced back over her shoulder, to where the war-god had disappeared. 'Do you think we can do it?'

'Not only think we can, I am determined to. Are you with me?'

At that, she made up her mind. 'Yes. Why do we delay?' She shouldered her satchel and was ready to go.

Henry, grinning, did likewise. 'It's my good fortune, Christine, that you are not a man. If you had been on the battlefield, I think I would have had a hard time of it. You would have made a better general than the Constable himself, and he was the best of all your French knights.'

'The women of France know how to fight for their own. But were the world ruled by women, King Henry, it would be a better place entirely.'  
'I think all women everywhere know how to fight for their children. I cannot quite imagine a world ruled by women, though.'

'Nor I, alas!' responded Christine tartly, seemingly recovered from her fear of their wild flight across the Hydra's ocean. 'But we're in the land of the Scales now, Henry; the land of Justice. Perhaps you'll learn a little here.'

'I've been learning all my life; hard lessons, Christine. Be thankful you don't have to learn them.' He was suddenly serious.

Christine said grudgingly, 'Yes, you've taught me that. It's easy enough for those of us who don't carry the burden to cavil.'

'And as you know very well,' said Henry, mock-chidingly, 'the Scales also bring people closer, for it's the sign of the Scales that I carry. So perhaps we'll learn to work better together.'

'And as you may know or know not,' it was Christine's turn to be serious, 'there are two schools of thought about the Scales; one, that they belong to the Maiden and represent Justice; the other, that they are the claws of the Scorpion itself. So we should still be careful.'

Henry looked at her. 'I will indeed. You have nothing to fear from the one, but as much as anyone from the other. I wish I had a bow! But I’ve come through many a danger without one.'

Christine eyed him askance. 'You'd shoot at the Scorpion?'

'If need be. I’ve won through against long odds before now; you know that.'

'Alas, yes.'

'Be thankful that I'm willing to face long odds now.'

'You'll not face them alone,' she responded, and quickened her pace.

-x-

At last they had left the Hydra's sea behind them, the sound of the waves diminishing into silence at their backs. Their clothes and gear were quite dry, thanks to their close proximity with Lord Mars. Wiry grass was under their feet, dotted with sea-shells. It seemed that even here in the sky-country there were storms. Maybe a cataclysm of the sort that had sent the comet hurtling into the doomed forest so long ago? Henry pondered this as he marched along, keeping always to Christine's left, for that was where the Scorpion's land lay; though, he mused, she might well be capable of defeating even such a beast single-handed, if it lay between her and her daughter. As for him, very little short of the hosts of heaven would keep him from his goal now.

For perhaps an hour they trudged across the low hills of the Scales, their eyes now well accustomed to the silver-washed landscape. Henry found himself thinking back to other long nights he'd lived through, and especially to St Crispin's Eve, when he'd walked the camp and fought with his conscience and pleaded with his God. There had been more such nights on their long sojourn through the past, but they had gradually become lit with the small warm conviction that the Herald of the French loved him. And there had been that last night of all, in the castle of St-Malo, when they had tried their best to hold on to each hour as it passed and had lost the battle at the end. But he had not given up; his presence here was proof that he had been right in that.

Up ahead, the horizon was glowing with pale light; an admixture of silver, crocus-yellow, and blue. Henry peered at it. 'What's that? Sunrise? But we'll never see the sun here. It's confusing – though wonderful enough, to be sure,' he added truthfully, if as an afterthought. 'But that being the case, that light - '

'We're travelling east, towards the Milky Way. We've come a long way round the sky since leaving Argo, thanks to Lord Mars. That light is another branch of the same river.'

Henry stared at it. 'I think I see something, outlined against it.' He altered his line of march towards it.

Christine said sharply, 'Does your talisman tell you to go that way?'

He pulled the scales out of his cote. Held them out, and felt the tug. 'Near as no matter. We might learn something; and Mars told us we had little to fear in this land.'

'What Mars thinks of as safe may not be the same for us,' observed Christine, but she put her head down and strode on at his side.

Half an hour later they were looking up at the Scales themselves, gleaming golden of their own light, like the Sextant far behind them. The stone pillar was tall as a church tower. The mighty balance reached far across their heads; the pans were perfectly aligned. At the pivot shone a huge blue stone, elder brother of the one in Henry's little talisman.

Henry felt dwarfed in its presence; but also very much comforted. For the fulcrum and the balance formed the shape of a cross.

'Christine, we should rest here a while, I believe. It's as safe a place as we'll find here.'

She blinked round at him, and passed a hand over her hair. 'Well. You may be right. If the talisman did not tell you how far away Marie and Montjoy are..?'

He considered this. 'It seemed to me that the pull was a little stronger. We may be gaining on them. I truly hope so. But we have to rest, and this seems as good a place as any.' He looked up again at the huge Scales and their cross-beam.

Christine hesitated, looked to the east where the Milky Way glowed along the horizon, and grimaced. 'Then we'll rest, for as short a time as maybe. And eat; for now I think of it, I'm hungry.'

They dropped their satchels and, after a little hesitation, each bowed to the Scales and sat with their backs to the tall pillar. It was made of a golden stone such as was used in fine buildings across the west of England; familiar enough, though faintly warm to the touch. What the balance was made of, Henry had no idea.

The warmth was soothing. Each of them had a little flask of spirits as well as their water and bread and dried fruit, brought with them from Argo, and Henry felt some of his tension abate.

'What lies further to the east?' he asked.

Christine pulled out the almanac, reminding Henry as always of Montjoy, who had done the same on so many occasions, sitting on a high ridge overlooking the land of the sail-backs, or against the outside of the tunnel-cave. He'd been utterly absorbed in the book on each occasion, and this had enabled Henry to glance at him from time to time, admiring the unconscious elegance of his pose, noting his frown of concentration or sudden smile of comprehension. He missed his herald most dreadfully.

'The Archer. Sagittarius.' My own birth-sign, said Montjoy's voice in his memory. 'Close to him, the Southern Crown, but south of that some signs that are new to me; Juno's peacock, the Altar, and some strange instruments. To the north, the Serpent-Bearer – Ophiucus - the Shield and Jove's eagle. Ah, and the Dolphin; he was a long way from his own sea! Further east still, more water-signs; the Sea-goat, the Water-carrier, the Southern Fish - and Cetus, the sea-monster that was sent to devour Andromeda. That's a sign of ill omen.'

'I've had enough of water-signs. Let's hope we don't have to go so far,' muttered Henry, looking at the map. 'We may have come halfway round the sky already, but we have the Argo and Lord Mars to thank for most of that. We can't rely on such luck again.'

'No.' She paused. 'Henry, do you still have hope?'

'I have determination. It is good to hope, of course, but if we give up, we'll be defeated for sure.'

She smiled. 'No, you won't give up, that's certain.'

'With God's grace, we'll win through.' He touched her hand. 'Now we should remember our duty to Him, and then get us some rest.' They knelt, and faced the bright glow on the horizon, for that was where the east lay, and recited the evening prayer. Then, comforted, they lay down and rolled themselves in their cloaks.

As before, Henry was aware that they should set a watch, but if they were both to be fresh for the trials to come, they would need all the rest they could get. Nor could he feel happy about asking Christine to stand guard while he rested.

So for a while he lay, wrapped in his cloak with his satchel under his head, and wishing mightily that he could feel safe enough to take his boots off. In their journeys through the past there had always been enough of his soldiers around to allow that luxury. Not here. But he would have to sleep, or he would be useless on the morrow.

His mind went back to his battle with the quadrant; fiercer even than the one with the hourglass, but he'd almost been prepared for it this time. Almost, but not quite. Scroop's voice, whispering in his mind, had all but over-set him. It had taken the fight with the Dolphin, and the wild ride with Lord Mars, to drive the memory from him. Now it came creeping back, trying to eat away at him. Scroop, whom he'd loved, and who he had thought loved him.

But he went in search of Montjoy, who meant more to him than Scroop ever had, who had crossed so many barriers to be with him, and who had turned away at the last on the path of duty. Montjoy was worth ten of Scroop, a hundred. His fears of last night were gone.

He smiled to himself, touched the talisman in the breast of his cote, turned his cheek to his makeshift pillow, and let himself fall into the lightest of sleeps.

-x-

'Welcome to the Dragon's arse! You won't get out of here in a hurry!'

Montjoy tried to shield Marie from Discordia's ungentle hands as they were bundled into a strange and insubstantial prison. His efforts earned him a casual shove that sent him sprawling. He slammed up against a coil of some substance like glass that encircled them; tesselated like window-glass, but alas, not so fragile. It gave slightly as he fell against it. Marie scrambled to get close to him; he dared not put an arm round her, lest Discordia take it into her head to separate them, but inclined his body a little towards her. They waited, panting.

He heard a curse from de Rais; 'The quadrant!' and smiled inwardly.

'No matter,' said Discordia. She became busy, drawing signs with her staff on the – floor? ground? – outside their prison. She moved round the glassy walls, muttering to herself; 'Pluto, Saturn. Eighth house, twelfth.' Each sign went at the corner of an invisible square, and as she drew the last one, despair descended on Montjoy.

So suddenly did it assail him that he knew, in some corner of his mind, that it must be a result of that most malefic of aspects, the grand cross, that she'd drawn; and therefore he did not entirely accept it. 'St Leonard, aid us!' he whispered.

He lifted his head, trying to see beyond those walls, straining his eyes. Like glass, the cage seemed to distort what lay beyond. He could make out a little outside the prison, maybe the size of a tent, into which he and Marie had been bundled. An open space surrounded it, perhaps as big as an inn-yard, enclosed by curving walls like a darker echo of their prison; de Rais was prowling round it, as if to make himself familiar with it. Leading into it but opposite each other were two winding pathways, likewise dark but glinting with thin shards of starlight. Discordia had brought them along one of those, before shoving them into this strange cage. She and de Rais were conferring outside in the open space; then suddenly they turned away and strode along the other pathway, their figures wavering, blinking, vanishing.

If he'd been left with his own circling thoughts, he would have been lost; in regrets, in self-recrimination, in melancholy. But he was not alone. They was someone else to think about.

A flask of water had been thrown in after them. There were small loaves too. 'Here. Drink,' he said – 'no, I'll drink first.' It was of bitter taste; the loaves dry, dusty. But, not being struck down straight away, he let Marie try them too.

He forced a smile, and now that their captors were gone, took her hand. 'We must keep our spirits high. We must be ready to help King Henry when he finds us; the Lion said he's following us. What should we do, do you think?'

In this sad confinement, her presence gave him purpose. And while he watched out of the corner of his eye for the return of their captors, he and Marie worked out their plans, and that done, he began to tell her stories – of the sky-country in which they found themselves; of gods and heroes who had been caught in Discordia's traps and found their way clear; stories of Henry.

-x-

When Henry lifted his head, blinking, unknown hours later, he saw Christine, sitting once more against the plinth of the Scales. She was riffling through the almanac, the quadrant lying on the ground beside her. Henry eyed it askance.

'Good morning,' he said, which was not quite right, but there was no other greeting that would do. 'Have you been awake long?

'No, a quarter-hour or so. I thought to spend a little time in study before waking you.'

Henry sat up. 'What have you learned?'

'I’ve found notes that my father left concerning the quadrant,' and she hesitated a moment before naming it, but he gestured to her to go on. 'He hoped I'd find a way to pick apart the spell, I'm sure.'

'Montjoy did the same for us in our travels through the past. It took him weeks, but he had so little to go on. Can you do the same in less time?'

'I believe so. I had a while to read his notes while we were on the Argo, after all, but I didn't know about the key to the spell then. That was the quadrant, and you've mastered it for us. But I had to find some way, some influence to free them, wherever they are – and I believe I have.' Her finger stabbed at an entry in the almanac. 'It's a rare quality for a star to have, but Alpheratz signifies escape from captivity.'

'God be praised. Christine, back to your studies! Think how we may use it. And meanwhile... I’ll set our food out.'

It was impossible to shave, alas; he knew he must look a fright, with the stubble by now scratchy thick upon his face. It could not be helped. He laid out their breakfast, and she ate it absently, and he left her alone until she looked up once more.

'Henry, set your hand on the quadrant,' she instructed him, and he crossed himself and did so reluctantly. The incised brass was cool under his hand. Metal, nothing more, as the hourglass had been since his battle with it in the land of the sail-backs, and he relaxed. She continued, 'Speak the morning prayer with me.'

They did so together. Nothing changed, but she appeared satisfied. 'We've hallowed it as best we may.'

'I’ve done that so many times since I’ve been king, hallowing coins and tokens for my people. I'd never realised the ritual's true power.'

'Well, we may be be thankful you have that power. Now.' She began to tear out the entry for Alpheratz.

Henry made a surprised sound; for a scholar to do such a thing! But she simply nodded in acknowledgement. 'I know, I know. But I have no other way to make this counter-spell. The star itself is half the sky away. And I have no means to write, no pen or ink...'

They had so few resources; compared with this, the voyage through the past had been simple. Henry hesitated a bare heartbeat.

'There's grass here, that might do for a pen. And if need be, you can write in my blood.'

That brought her head round sharply. She parted her lips, but for a moment she could not speak. Then, with a determined briskness, 'So. I'll keep the writing as short as possible. There are other things I can do that will help.' She riffled further through the almanac. 'The Houses,' she muttered, and tore out more tiny strips, and a part of a coloured illumination. Purple and white.

'Rulership is in your blood,' she said, almost under her breath, 'that will aid us here. I will not need more than for a few characters. Marie was born under Leo. Do you know Montjoy's birth-sign?'

'Sagittarius.'

She plucked a stem of grass. 'Then, if you're sure - '

Henry pulled back his sleeve, part-drew his sword, looked at the bright edge for a moment, then drew his forearm abruptly across it. A wet line appeared. He held his arm out. She dipped the grass-stem in the blood and wrote; half a dozen signs only, one of them the familiar crossed arrow of Sagittarius.

'Wipe that clean,' she said, indicating his arm. 'No, there's some salve in your satchel. Use that.' Her tone brooked no argument. She waved the paper gently to dry it, while he found the salve and stroked it on. It stung briefly, but that was all. Then she folded the papers tightly together and held the little packet out to him in an awkward gesture.

'Keep it,' he said. 'I would not know what to do with it.'

For the first time her voice shook slightly. 'I'll guard it with my life, Henry, make no mistake.' She drew her dagger and sliced a strip from the edge of her cloak; tied the new talisman into it, and making a further loop, hung it round her neck under her chiton. 'There, that's the best I can do.' She snapped the almanac shut, and thrust it back into the satchel. She gave the grass stem to him. 'Keep that safe... You must know that this talisman's a makeshift thing, cobbled together, not like your scales. I'm afraid I've missed out something and it won't do what it's supposed to do.'

'Do you think I’ve never been afraid, never come close to despair? But despair is a sin; and with that,' and he indicated the place where the new talisman now lay hidden, 'we're one step closer to our goal. Nor have I ever given up, nor ever will. Come, lady. Forward.' He scrambled to his feet, grasped her arm, and hauled her up too.

She gathered her belongings together, thrust them into her satchel, and lifted her chin. 'East,' she said, and took the first step herself.

'That's better.' Henry nudged her elbow with his own, and earned a tired smile.

On they went for an hour or more, and plodded up another ridge, and crested it cautiously to see what could be seen. The wide shimmer of the domains of the Milky Way spread out before them, stretching far away on either hand. Ahead and to the south, the grass-land of the Scales gave gradual way to a waste of red-lit sand and rock; a long way to the north was a kinder country of wooded hills and pastures. In comparison, it looked like a vision of Arcadia. Its hills curved right round to rise up beyond the desert.

Henry heaved a slight sigh. 'Well, there's the Scorpion's land. And that must be Ophiucus. I'd rather go that way, I’ll admit, but our quickest way must be straight through the desert.'

'Yes, alas,' said Christine. 'It's but a short crossing. Come, let's not delay.'

They began to descend the ridge. On its eastern side, there were boulders and shelves of rugged rock, and they had to pick their way between them slowly and carefully. So they were taken by surprise when, away to their left, there was a hail; Henry and Christine both whipped round, ready to draw sword or dagger.

A lean, athletic youth was running towards them with an incredible swiftness. 'There you are! There you are at last!' He was lightly clad in a wisp of next-to-nothing – Henry hastily averted his eyes after the first involuntarily appreciative glimpse - with a short winged staff in his hand. The youth's voice showed not a trace of breathlessness.

Christine took one look at him, and greeted him with a certain sang-froid, as one who had grown used to addressing gods and heroes. 'Lord Mercury.'

'Yes, yes, that's me, but don't bother with the Lord! So stuffy, such a waste of time!' He laughed, and paused beside them, almost prancing, still seeming on the brink of flight. Henry glanced down at his feet; yes, wings on his heels. Feathered Mercury indeed. He went to kneel, and Christine to curtsey.

'Don't waste time with that ! Your child, lady, she is safe for now - '

'Oh!' Her hands flew up to her face, and then she extended one of them towards him. 'Where? Who's with her?'

'Your friend, King Henry, your herald.' It was Henry's turn to exhale in relief. 'I’ve been keeping an eye on him. He's one of my own, too, after all! But you must make haste, make haste!'

'Why? What's happening? Tell us, I beg!' Henry's moment of relief had not lasted long.

'Your enemy has them. He holds them in duress; they're locked in, locked in! I lured him away for a while, diced with him, dallied with him, offered him gold and the chance to bed me if he won.' Henry blinked, but otherwise kept his face under control; out of the tail of his eye, he saw Christine doing the same. 'But I had to be on my way, could not stay. Go to them! I can't take you, I must fly. But you'll find them at the Dragon's Tail!'

'How far? What hazards?' Henry had perforce adopted the young god's manner of speech.

'Not far to the east, and the Dragon moves slowly, for all it's a beast of ill-omen. Be quick! Use all your tricks!'

'The east? The desert?'

'Yes, yes, but moving further away – you must catch up. You'll do it, if you hurry! And now I must go, but I’ll see you again if I may! Godspeed!'

And he sprang away and up, and the air seemed to swirl after him, then settled in an eddy of stardust.

'The Dragon's Tail? In the desert? How can that be? We're far out of our way, then.' He turned away, sagging in his disappointment, and passed a weary hand over his face. 'All the way back to the north again – to the Pole, almost! Why did the talisman not show us? Why could Mercury not tell us straight?'

'He's a trickster, he cannot come directly at anything. But I don't think he means to deceive us in this. A herald is one of his own, as he said – and he watches over children too, God be praised. But there's more than one dragon in the sky. Let me think.' She stared fiercely at her feet for a while, while Henry reined in his questions and demands. 'The sky has worms aplenty – the dragon in the north, yes, and Aesculapius' serpent, and others. But there's another one still, and that's in the Zodiac.'

She paused, and Henry practically ground his teeth in frustration, would she never come to the point? 'Where, madame?'

'It moves around. It follows the eclipses. The story is that it causes the eclipses by eating the sun and moon.'

'Eating the sun and moon?' Cold dread settled on him, but he squared his shoulders. 'We must go up against it, though, if need be. We haven't come this far to give up now.'

'It's a gigantic thing. There's a head, and a tail, and they sit at opposite sides of the year.' She dug into her bag, and found the almanac, leafed through it, and stopped at a chart. 'Here. This year the eclipses are in Aries and Sagittarius. It's a bad place to be, the Dragon's Tail. A place of questioning your own past – of regrets and might-have-beens. A place of traps. And it's close by us here.'

She glanced, left and right, at the sky around them, at the reddish desert-country, and at the further stars arching overhead.

Henry felt for the copper scales in his cote, and held them out. Again, that nudge – no, that pull - at his heart as much as his fingers. He pointed. 'East, like Lord Mercury said. They're close. Let's go!' He put the scales away, gripped her arm, comradely, and set off again, down the slope to the desert. Christine was but half a pace behind.

They'd been going perhaps five minutes when she asked, as if unable to stop herself, 'Do you think Mercury and de Rais actually..?'

'I’ve got no idea,' said Henry quickly, and Christine nodded as swiftly. If they had, it would have bothered Mercury not at all, Henry was sure of that. He was a randy young god, if all the tales were true.

Before long they stood at the foot of the slope, looking out across the wide, shallow valley that lay between them and the eastern hills. What seemed like a dried-up river-bed wound down from the north, its course marked by wiry, thorny trees. Here and there were clumps of grass or small scrubby bushes, or scatters of stones or larger boulders. The sands were red.

Henry spoke quietly. 'Christine. If needs be, go on alone. You've got the tools. You can release them, and maybe you and Montjoy can defeat de Rais together. Do you understand?'

'The Scorpion,' she whispered.

'Yes. Let's hope it doesn't come to that.' And without waiting for her reply, he set off at a fast pace across the sands, and with only a heartbeat's pause, she followed.

They were able to move swiftly, the sand being hard-packed rather than shifting. At first it was easy enough, as they dropped down into the dry valley. A rich scattering of the further stars burned above them; the air was filled with a constant grasshopper chirping. Creatures rustled in the scrubby growth. Once or twice there was a flash of movement as other creatures hunted them.

'Don't tread on any scorpions,' said Christine in a low voice, as one stating the obvious, and Henry grunted acknowledgement.

Perhaps half an hour later, they were crossing the river-bed, scuffing warily through the dead wood and dried leaves in its bottom. 'So far, so good,' muttered Henry, and they clambered up the further bank, using tree-roots and jutting stones as handholds.

There were more stones on the ground now, smooth and flat and polished. After a while Henry could see that ahead, they almost formed a pavement; diamond-shaped, they stretched in a winding pathway from the north, leading down-valley to disappear into the red distance to their right.

'What's this?' But for once Christine didn't have an answer.

They climbed further up the eastern slope of the valley, and stood uneasily at the edge of the stones; almost a roadway, the width of a London street.

'They're not like flagstones,' Christine mused, staring down at them. 'Diamond-shaped. That's unusual. And who in the sky-country would make a road, anyway? There are no stonemasons in the stories of the Scorpion that I can recall.' She crouched down and looked closer, passed a hand over the stones. 'They're polished; there's an iridescence on them.'

Another silence. Henry waited while she thought. He was very reluctant to set foot on this roadway until he knew its hazards.

'The Scorpion. It's almost like a scorpion's tail.' Her voice suddenly rose a pitch. 'No – a dragon's tail!'

'The Dragon's Tail!' Now he could see it lying across the landscape, the coiling tip of a gigantic creature. 'But you said it was in Sagittarius this year!'

'It moves – and it's still midsummer, we're not in that half of the year yet. So it's on its way there, but hasn't reached it yet.' She stopped, watching him impatiently, but waiting for his word.

'So, here we are. The Dragon's Tail.' The little scales, hanging from his hand, told him to go south along that living road. 'They're that way.' He tucked the talisman securely into his belt.

She unsheathed her dagger and made to step onto those diamond scales. Henry caught her arm. She rounded on him, but held her peace.

'Stay a moment. There's not just the Dragon to fear, though from what you said it's bad enough. There's de Rais too. Are you certain you wish to come with me?' He had his hands on Christine's shoulders now, holding her at arm's length from him, and looked fiercely into her eyes. She was clutching her dagger, her own eyes blazing.

She nodded once.

'Then be careful. Keep thinking, all the time.' She nodded, steadied, took a deep breath. She trusted him to rescue her daughter. He had better not fail, or that dagger might even lodge in his own breast. He unsheathed his sword, and let his cloak fall; he'd need his arms free if he had to fight. She did the same.

'God be our aid.' They crossed themselves. He could not take her hand, armed as they both were, but they were shoulder to shoulder. Three running steps, and they were onto the Tail of the Dragon. And it changed from a stone roadway into something he'd never experienced before.

It was like one of those old mazes he had seen cut into the turf here and there, relics of a pagan cult said some, symbols of the journey of life said others. But this maze twisted over and below him, as well as on either hand, and it was not grass-green but black.

They could still see, dimly; he heard Christine mutter 'Eclipse-light?' Faint edges of light caught at his eyes too, as if reflected from the body of some gigantic scaled creature. Beneath their feet were more scales. They shifted slightly as he trod them. Was the creature breathing? Was it aware of him?

'Great Dragon,' he said quietly. 'Let us pass, I beg. I mean no offence. I am a son of Cadwalladr.' Christine made a slight noise of enquiry, but he had no time to explain.

The coiling blackness around them stopped moving for a moment. Then it resumed. They had no choice but to go on. He crossed himself again. Took a firmer grip on his sword-hilt, and carried on.

Even by the standards of the sky-country, this was a strange place. He thought they turned a loop, circled back on themselves, curled in slow turns. On they went. His own thoughts began to circle too. How had they come to this place; what fate had led them here, up in the sky, so far from their friends? How could they ever return?

'Are we doing the right thing?' he muttered.

'The Dragon's Tail,' she reminded him. 'Doubts. Questions. We're getting close.'

'It's not me that’s thinking this?'

'That's all I can tell you. Can your talisman tell you more?'

'Oh. I'd almost forgotten it.' He fumbled at his belt; held out the copper scales. They pulled at his fingers. 'Yes. We're going the right way. We're getting close!' For the tug was stronger now. They exchanged a smile, set their shoulders and trudged on.

Up a long soaring curve. Ahead, the narrow space up which they were climbing seemed to open out; they could not see what was beyond the crest. Henry touched Christine's arm. 'Careful. Slowly.' She nodded, and let him move a little ahead of her; but she was there at his back, dagger in hand, casting a glance behind her now and then.

To think that he had tried to forbid her this quest!

He stopped as soon as he could see into the open space. Dark as his throne-room, but a quarter the size. Splinters of light from the further stars shone through, in a diamond pattern that echoed the pathway they'd been treading. And a clump, a knot of tighter coils than the ones they'd navigated, so shadowy that they almost seemed not to be there; but caught within it -

He went to shout, thought better of it and felt behind him for Christine.

'They're here. No, quiet.' He drew her up beside him, and pointed. She drew in a long breath. Sitting within that insubstantial cage, close but not touching, heads bowed, were two figures; Montjoy and Marie.

'God be thanked,' she whispered, but did not run towards them.

He smiled slightly; wanted to voice his approval but knew it would be condescending. Instead he said, 'Be ready,' shoved the scales back into his cote, pulled her forward very slightly, and together they crept out into the open space. Here would be the ambush, if ambush there was.

And from beyond that shadowy prison a figure sprang, laughing with glee. 'Welcome, Henry!' a young man's voice cried. 'You got here at last!'

Henry flung away his satchel. Behind him, Christine raced for the prison, shouting, 'Marie! Montjoy!'

'Herald!' cried Henry. No time for more; his attacker was at arms' length.

The youth's sword hammered down. Henry parried, turned it, saw from the corner of his eye the prisoners scrambling to their feet. 'God be praised!' Montjoy shouted, then - 'Take care! It's de Rais!'

Henry swung his sword back in a graceless chop. Both hands on the hilt now; all the strength of his arms and body. He caught a glimpse of flying black hair. Yes, it was de Rais. Both of them panting hard. But this was his work, his life, here was his foe. A wordless yell with each stroke. If the Dragon heard, too bad!

'De Rais!' came Christine's shout. 'We've got your quadrant!'

Henry caught another glimpse of her, holding the quadrant high, waving it tauntingly. De Rais flicked a glance at her, half turned, changed his mind and leapt backwards fully six feet. Henry sprang after him. He was not quite fast enough.

More shouts, this time from a child's voice. 'Maman! Maman!' and Christine’s reply.

There was de Rais running ahead. Henry went after him savagely, caught him up. They went to battle like stags. Again de Rais fell back, back. Quick though he was, young, rested, he could not prevail against a seasoned soldier. Henry was grunting with effort, his face screwed into a fearsome mask, but he was winning.

De Rais whipped round, and disappeared. Where..? Henry scrambled forward once more. He'd gone over the lip of another long, long slope. Another tunnel-path like the one they'd come up. Faint against the star-sheen Henry could make out a racing figure.

He snatched one glance behind him. There they all were. Montjoy and Marie, held fast in the knot in the Dragon's body, but both on their feet now, hands against the glassy walls of their prison, eagerly straining towards Christine. She was a yard from them, declaiming urgently, holding the quadrant in one hand and the almanac in the other. A coil of that strange cage seemed to loosen and fall away.

'Herald! I must - ' he gestured wildly.

'Yes, go! Come back safe!' They stared at each other an instant more, then Henry turned and leapt after de Rais.

Now it was a mad chase down the long sinuous body of the Dragon, the further stars fleeting past like sparks from a bonfire. Henry's blood was up, the star-fire racing through his veins, the night roaring past. 'Gilles de Rais!' he yelled. 'Stay! Fight!' And a mocking laugh answered him, and they sped on.

A trap, there must be a trap. So when, abruptly, the stars dimmed again – the Dragon's heart? - he was ready, and his sword was rising up to defend him and caught de Rais' blade as it slashed down. Something punched into his side, but his armour turned it. His hand locked about de Rais' wrist and crushed it. De Rais swore and dropped the dagger. Henry dragged down with one hand, lifted a knee savagely, but it missed its target. De Rais' head slammed into his face. His head rang. The swords disengaged, the lithe body twisted free. De Rais pushed at him, and was stumbling away again.

Henry blundered after him, casting about in the near-blackness for the way onwards.

'Can't find me? Here! I'm here! Old king, slow king! Come and get me!' And the chase was on again. They were out of the darkness now, running free in the further reaches of the Dragon. De Rais was leading him on with some plan of his own in mind. Henry didn't care. He had a trick or two ready himself. And he was gaining, gaining on the youth. Months of hard living had toughened him well. His strides ate up the night, as if the stars were his stepping-stones.

He was gaining. Warlike Harry, in his wrath. In thunder and in earthquake.

They raced up a final long slope of the Dragon's body. De Rais stopped running. He spun and faced Henry, triumph blazing from him, that long, slender sword poised. 'Do you know where you are, Goddam?'

'The Dragon's Head!' he shouted. A guess. The right guess. In the moment of de Rais' surprise, Henry leapt on him, sword hungry in his hand.

He'd seen stags battling it out in the rut, the old king and the young challenger. He'd seen cockerels fight, all flashing feathers and stabbing spurs. He'd fought for his life more times than he could count. But this, this was like eagles cart-wheeling across the sky, talons locked, beaks slashing. They left trails of fire. It sparked from their swords and showered through the heavens.

De Rais was falling back. He had a plan. Henry would have none of it. He crowded upon the youth, using every trick he'd learned, using his weight, giving de Rais not a moment. Their gasps and grunts echoed across the sky, their swords clashed and scraped. Henry was winning. De Rais was giving back, and back, and -

A great weariness came over him. All his movements were leaden. He barely parried a blow from de Rais, hoisting his sword up, stumbling forward. De Rais smiled, brilliantly, blindingly. He skipped back again.

'Don't you know your own birth-chart? You're in Aries, Henry, in your nadir! You've followed me all this way. Now I’ve got you where I want you!'

'I’ve beaten long odds before,' gasped Henry. 'I’ve beaten you before. I’ve been here before.'

That startled de Rais. He hesitated. He could not know that Henry meant he'd been at his nadir before. And he'd always triumphed in the end. Henry swung again, two-handed. All his weight went into that blow. De Rais' sword spun away, and he sprang back, dodged the next blow, twisted to run. Henry's strike went wide. Wrong-footed, he staggered, snatched at de Rais as he fell. Pain like a lightning-bolt through his ankle - his own sword fell from his hand with the shock of it - but with it came fury.

He clawed for de Rais' throat, got both hands round it. A savage scrambling fight on the sky-floor. Like so many in the Boar's Head. De Rais squirmed under him, got on top, bent Henry's little fingers back, almost unlocking his hands. Henry gasped, and slammed up his undamaged knee.

'I'm not one of those poor children,' he spat. 'I'm Henry the Fifth! I beat your army at Agincourt. Now I'll beat you!'

De Rais was rolling away, his hands pressed into his groin, his mouth stretched wide in agony. Henry pushed himself up on one elbow, grabbed him and yanked him savagely onto his back. Yelled into his face, 'You're dead!' – all the savagery of Eastcheap in his voice - and slammed his fist into de Rais' throat.

He lunged away and snatched up his sword, pain slicing through his ankle again, and swung back. There was no need of the sword. De Rais was choking out his last breath. Henry took a firmer grip of the sword-hilt and levered himself to his feet, watching; he would not make this easy. And when de Rais stopped moving, he drove the sword's point into his eye, just to make sure, as he'd done to the tyrant in the flight from the comet so long ago.

Done.

-x-

He staggered then, gasping, and almost sank back down to the sky-floor. Soft grass, like the sheep-pastures of England. So easy, so easy just to lie there and rest. He could not. He had to get out of his nadir. If he let himself rest, even for a few minutes, he might not get up again.

He needed to choose a direction. The talisman was still there in his cote, God be thanked. He held it up in a shaking hand, marked where it led him, put it away and forced one foot in front of the other, leaning on his sword at each step. He barely trusted his ankle to support him. It was as tiring as walking through deep, dry sand. Sand on the coast of Wales, where King Richard had landed, where Stephen Scroop had brought news of his downfall. No, he would not think about the Scroops.

The dim grass of the pasture passed slowly under his feet. Just now his strides had eaten leagues upon leagues, but now he was paying for that magical speed. He had half the sky to cross to find his friends. How far was it to the edge of Aries, of the Ram's domain? Would he be able to move more freely once beyond it?

There was a dark mass in his way, like a fortress, like a hill. He stopped, stupidly, wondering how on Earth – how in the heavens – he could get past it. And while he stood, stock-still, it reared high, blocking out the star-sheen from the further heavens.

Not the Ram. It was the Dragon, the Dragon that ate the sun and moon.

He was past caring.

He stood still, bent over, panting, resting his sword's point on the floor of the sky. He could not be sure whether the sparks of light that swam before his eyes were stars or not. Behind lay the body of his enemy, crumpled and broken, in a pool of deeper shadow.

He mastered his breathing, and hoisted himself upright.

'Well, young king. You've done well.' A voice came out of the darkness; a vast, hissing voice. Henry took a firmer grip on his sword.

'I thank you, great Dragon.' He made to kneel, but his injured ankle flared in a burst of white pain. A whimper escaped him; he stood up straight again.

'Where are you going, son of Cadwalladr?'

'Back to my friends,' he answered, swaying, peering up into the dark. There was a long jaw. There were teeth, longer even than those of the tyrant he'd killed. There was a long, forked tongue. Probably fire, too.

'What will you do when you find them?'

'We'll go home, if we can.' Henry was leaning on his sword more heavily now.

'And when you're home, what then?'

'We'll rest. We'll study, and learn.' He needed to rest now. He was in no fit state to bandy words with a dragon, least of all this dragon.

'So, you'll learn, King Henry? What will you learn?'

All these questions. He was tired out. The pain in his ankle was a dull roar. 'What we need to know.'

'Hrngh,' a snort of amusement, 'you'll need more than a lifetime to learn that.'

'I know. Let me pass, great Dragon, I beg.' He was not eaten yet. He may as well ask. 'Will you aid me?'

'I may. You're bold, King Henry.'

'I am tired, great Dragon,' Henry corrected him.  
The vast head bent, bulking huge against the dark sky. The Dragon examined him, first with one giant yellow cat's-eye, then with the other, then came closer and stared at him full-on. Forge-breath flowed over him, stirred his hair, paused, flowed again. The eyes focussed on him, saw right inside him.

'You'll do,' said the Dragon, and snaked its head straight at him. The huge jaws opened, the sword-teeth gleamed. Henry gasped in a breath, lifted his own sword, braced himself on his good foot. He wouldn't win this fight. Yet still he'd go down fighting.

The Dragon roared.

Henry's body shuddered with the impact. His ears rang, he was buffeted, slammed off his feet. He was hurled away, far away from the Dragon. He fought to breathe. The further stars tumbled past. He clung desperately to his sword.

He caught fleeting glimpses of this and that as he hurtled across the heavens. Another vast ocean, with two giant fish. A beautiful young woman, dark-skinned as St Maurice, on a rocky coast. And surely, there was Pegasus himself!

The roar still filled the skies, but was growing fainter. His mad pace slowed. Now he could see the scales of the Dragon rushing past beneath him in a dim red light -

The Tail. He was being sent back to the Tail. To his friends, if they were still there. 'Great Dragon, thank-you,' he gasped, and seemed to hear distant laughter. 'You've a long way to go yet, son of Cadwalladr! But you're on the right path,' and with that, the Dragon's roar ceased and his wild flight ended too.

He crashed onto the scaled body, skidded, glissaded. His sword spun off somewhere as he fought to halt himself. The scales caught at his clothes, burned his hands. His ankle, God, his ankle. His head slammed down on the scales and his cheek was scorched too. He rolled once, twice, and halted, trying not to retch with the pain.

After a while he worked out which way was up, which down, and pushed himself to a half-sitting position, propped on his hands, his head hanging. Another half-dozen panting heartbeats and he could look up. And he could hear too; hear shouts, cries, not far away. He peered about and caught sight of small figures, rushing towards him, clambering onto the Dragon's Tail and running along it.

'Henry!' A man and a woman, both shouting the same name. The man was way out in front, his strides eating the ground. The woman had a child by the hand. He smiled, and tried to rise, and cried out in pain – but the immense weariness of his nadir had left him.

He cried out again in welcome and held out one hand. Montjoy reached him, crashed to his knees, and caught him in a frantic embrace. 'I thought I'd lost you!'

'No, never.' Henry clung, put his head down onto the bony shoulder, and sobbed, though a moment earlier he had been smiling. He felt kisses on his hair, his temple. He felt tears. He kissed Montjoy's neck, which was all he could reach at this moment. Montjoy's cheek was pressing on his hair, and the beloved voice whispered, 'I've got you safe. At last.'

'I thought it was me who was trying to get you safe!' Henry was laughing, and his eyes were wet.

'That too,' said Montjoy. 'That too.' He began to rock Henry back and forth, very gently, and Henry, despite the snarl of pain in his ankle, was utterly content. He settled his head more comfortably on Montjoy's shoulder, smiling against his neck, and allowed himself to be held and rocked.

A few moments later, Christine was there too. 'Is he hurt? Wounded? Marie, look in my satchel!' The little girl dug determinedly inside it.

'My ankle; not bleeding. Bad, but not fatal.' He held out his free hand blindly, and she took it, and he laughed through his tears. 'De Rais is dead. It's over. We can go home. If we can get there - '

'There's help coming,' said Christine.

'Lie back. Rest.' That was Montjoy, and his hands grasped Henry's shoulders, easing him back onto his lap. Henry let his neck relax, and turned his head a little to look up at them all. The tears ran out of the corners of his eyes, and his nose began to run too, so he was glad when Christine took the dressing Marie had found and gave it to him. 'Thank-you, Marie,' he said. He wiped his face and blew his nose. Such a prosaic action. 'Herald,' he mumbled then, with love, and saw a smile on the lean face above him, and reached up and touched the bearded cheek. 'You're all well?' and if that was a little belated, he had an injury as his excuse.

'Yes. We're all well.' Montjoy caught his wrist, the fingers circling warm about it, and kissed his palm. And that was the last thing Henry knew for a time. With his head on Montjoy's lap, with his friends about him, with help (what help?) on the way, he let his eyes slide shut, and allowed the others to take charge for a while.

-x-

He half-woke to movement, as careful hands rolled him first one way and then the other, onto a stretcher it seemed, for then he was lifted. After that, he swung between waking and unconsciousness for a while. There were women's voices, quiet but confident. Once, he opened his eyes and saw them; robed in white, and they were carrying his stretcher. Nuns, perhaps? No, there would not be any nuns in this place, and it seemed to him that they were going at quite a pace. He was disinclined to protest, and simply shut his eyes again and let them take him where they would.

The next time he woke, he was lying in a bed in a colonnaded building, a kind of portico looking out over a twilit landscape of woods and meads, with drifts of flowers here and there. There were quiet voices a little way away. Above, the further stars shone bright. He blinked, and tried to move, and caught his breath as his ankle made its presence felt.

'You're awake, sir, I see,' and a woman came into his field of vision. Clad in a long white chiton, with an air of authority. 'How are you feeling?'

From that he knew that she was a doctor, and submitted with the best grace he could to all her personal questions, and peerings into his eyes, and proddings. When she said, 'Hmm,' and lapsed into thought, he asked mildly, 'Madame, may I know your name?'

'Ah, of course. I am Iaso, daughter of Aesculapius. We were able to come to you as the Dragon's Tail swung round into Ophiucus. You've been here many hours now, and are well on the road to recovery.'

'That's good news,' he said, thinking but not saying that she could have told him this before. 'Montjoy? My friends?'

'Montjoy was here until not long ago. We sent him off to break his fast with your other friends.' Henry glanced to one side, where there was another bed, recently vacated by the looks of it, and two more beyond. 'They're not far away, have no fear.' And indeed he could hear Montjoy's voice, unmistakeable, and others; Christine, the little girl, and other women.

They seemed to be playing with Marie, though, rather than eating. He could hear one woman saying, 'Toss it up higher, and turn your hand quick as you can.'

Laughter. 'Oh! It's gone too far to catch!'

'Try a quick flick, like this. Yes, that's better.'

Iaso, apparently satisfied with her examination, called out, 'Father!' and a few moments later, another figure walked out of legend; Aesculapius himself came along the portico, a big man, bearded, with a kindly face.

Henry bowed his head with great respect. 'Sir.'

'Well, you've been in the wars, young man. A failing of young men everywhere.' His voice was deep, almost gruff, and Henry eyed him warily because he realised that the slender golden snake lying loosely around his neck was not an ornament but a living creature. It turned its head and regarded him briefly with jewel-like eyes, before tucking itself back into a loose knot, apparently unimpressed by what it saw.

'I know it, sir,' said Henry. 'I'm growing older, though - and wiser too, maybe.'

'Then there's hope for you yet. Well, let's have a look at you.' And look he did, with a thoroughness which Henry bore as best he could, sitting patiently while the doctors removed strapping from about his ankle, and talked incomprehensibly across him.

Finally Aesculapius gave him a draught to drink, applied a salve to his ankle which made it tingle, and he and Iaso bandaged it up again. Then he patted Henry kindly on the shoulder, and said, 'You may get up now. I’ll send your friend the herald to help you.' And with that, the two doctors departed, leaving Henry to lie back, looking out between the pillars of the colonnade at the woods and meadows beyond, smiling because he had escaped so lightly.

Soon there were swift footsteps along the portico. He looked round and, to his joy, saw his beloved approaching. He was dressed in an undyed woollen chiton that reached almost to his ankles, leaving his long, narrow feet bare, and to Henry's partial eyes he looked supremely elegant.

'Herald!' cried Henry, and held out his hands.

Montjoy came to him in a rush, smiling, sat on the edge of the bed, and went gladly into his embrace. Henry tried, over and again, to gather him in closer, hugging hard and harder still. Yes, he had his herald back again, his hands assured him. He ran his hands over his shoulder-blades, his ribs, his hips, through the fine wool of the chiton. There was a lot to be said for these Greek fashions in clothing! And Montjoy was doing the same to him, carefully at first and then with abandon as Henry did not crumble under his touch.

Henry pulled back just far enough for a kiss, mouth on hungry mouth, breathing each other's breath – ah, the taste and the smell of him!

'I thought I'd never have this again,' he mumbled.

'Nor I. I've missed you, Henry.' And then Montjoy laughed a little at himself. 'That's – inadequate. I can't say how much.'

They kissed again, and when he emerged this time, he asked belatedly, 'You're well? You're all well? Marie?'

'Yes, all of us.' Montjoy sat back slightly, still smiling. 'They've had a care to Marie – it was a fearful time for us both, though she didn't know what I feared – but de Rais didn't touch her beyond what was needful to control me.'

Henry slumped just a little in relief. 'That haunted us, all this time in the sky. I am so glad.' He peered more closely at Montjoy's face, and saw marks upon it, for the new beard had been shaved off – like his own, he realised. 'You...?'

'Nor me – beyond what was necessary. He and Discordia were not gentle.'

'Discordia?'

'Yes, he called on her and she answered. I'll tell you the whole story when I can think again! But yes, they struck me a few times. Better me than Marie, though! And I think they were keeping us in reserve – to lure you to your meeting with de Rais. So they could not damage either of us too greatly.'

'Not too greatly? Where is this Discordia?' demanded Henry.

'I've no idea. Truly, it was nothing, and I'm healed now. It's been but a few hours in this place, but I feel I’ve been re-made.'

Henry pulled him close again, and held him without speaking; but gently now, for fear of hurting him.

'Well,' said Montjoy after a while, sitting back again. 'Aesculapius and his children have been tending to us. His daughters are playing with Marie now, and she knows she's safe. Lady Christine cannot stop smiling, and she's glad to have female company again, I think - '

'Ah, she'll be relieved to be rid of me!' said Henry, trying at last for a lighter note. 'We had our moments, she and I – and she came off best, more often than not.'

'That doesn't surprise me!'

'And you - you're the picture of elegance!' He cast an appreciative eye over the classical drapery of the long chiton, which was now slightly rumpled. 'They've taken your clothes...'

'Hygieia all but tore them from my back, and sent me off to have a bath, and gave me this instead. There's one for you too. They bathed you while you slept.'

He unrolled a bundle he'd been carrying, that had lain forgotten on the bed until now. Fine wool, like Montjoy's own chiton, and Henry eyed it askance. 'I’ll look an idiot in it, but no matter! Help me into it, love.'

He swung his legs out from under the coverings, and tugged his nightgown over his head. Montjoy helped him into the chiton, arranged its folds to his satisfaction and tied the cord of the belt. Henry stood, uncertain for a moment in the unfamiliar garment, and smiled at the sight of his own feet, which lacked the elegance of Montjoy's. But he swung his arms, and rolled his shoulders, and smiled again at the feel of the soft, clean wool, and the freedom the garment gave him.

His sword was lying on a chest at the end of the bed, and he buckled it on, to remind him of who he was. There was also a soft purse that had been placed by the sword-belt, with the copper scales laid upon it, and he picked them up. Montjoy exclaimed at the sight of them.

'Christine told me of your journeyings, and I hope to hear the whole story from you, too, when we've time. But those scales – they're how you followed us?' And it was typical that he did not say followed me.

Henry gave them to Montjoy, and he turned them over in his hand, touching the shining gem that the Lady Venus had hallowed. 'All the way from Troyes and up into the sky,' said Henry lightly, 'in pursuit of my own true love. And I’ve found him - and this time I will not let him go.'

'No, never again, no matter what it means for the peace treaty.' Montjoy gave the scales back, and Henry tucked them carefully away in the purse and tied it to his sword-belt, and the two of them began to walk slowly along the marble portico towards the sound of women's voices.

Henry's ankle seemed inclined to bear his weight, and he stepped out with increasing confidence – though he stopped short for a moment at the sight of another snake lying in sinuous curves between the pillars of the portico. This one was brilliant blue and green, and was perhaps five yards long. He fought the urge to bow to it, and said, 'There'll be peace. I find I've lost my resolve to be King of France! And there'll be no marriage with Princess Katherine now; the time for that is long past. As for you and me, we'll get us to England, and take stock, and see what may be done. And even before that, we must get back to the world below!'

'We'll have help, they said, and they also said that we must rest a while – so that is what we will do.' Montjoy raised his voice slightly. 'Here's King Henry, my ladies, wide awake and hungry, I don't doubt!'

They had turned the corner of the portico, and halfway along its next stretch was a semi-circle of marble pavement, with a balustrade around it, jutting out over a sloping lawn. Here sat a group of women and a little girl, all deep in conversation. Some were unknown to him, but he smiled a greeting at Christine and Marie, dressed in full-length chitons (Christine looked odd to his eyes now, so decorously covered.) The rest were surely all Aesculapius' daughters, so like they were to Iaso, dark-haired, severely beautiful, supremely competent. They acknowledged his bow with grave smiles; and a man in a short hooded cloak appeared too, with a tray of food, and it was he who gestured Henry towards a marble table and told him to eat.

So he did so, sitting at the table and looking out over the balustrade at the wooded hills of Ophiucus, and after the first strangeness had worn off, he felt very much at his ease; and the white wine they gave him to drink sang agreeably in his veins.

It was perhaps under its influence that he was persuaded to tell how he had hunted de Rais across the sky, fought him and defeated him there (this last carefully edited to spare Marie) and of his conversation with the Dragon; and as he talked he felt the weight of the experience lift from him.

'And you; your story,' he asked Montjoy quietly, when he'd heard of how they'd arrived in the sky-country. Christine was trying to play at knucklebones now, very badly, with accompanying giggles from Marie, and watched by Iaso and Telesophorus, the hooded man. 'Can you tell it here? Discordia came for you, you say. What was that like?'

In that safe pleasaunce, with the further stars blooming in the sky above them, it was odd to hear of that desperate journey in de Rais' company, up into the sky-country to be greeted on the instant by contention between the Lion and Discordia and taken up by her ungentle hands. Montjoy told the story slowly, halting, glancing at Marie now and again as if to remember this point or that. 'I can barely tell you what it was like. So long it seemed, that flight. Her wings roared around us. I heard shouting voices and the clash of arms. It seemed to go on for a very long time and yet be over in an instant. Like a nightmare.'

He paused, and Henry, with some clumsy idea of taking his mind off the worst of the journey, asked, 'Did you see anything beyond Discordia and de Rais?'

'The further stars. Far behind us I glimpsed a unicorn, cantering across its meadow, with it head held high, as if watching us. I saw a winged woman, stern and beautiful as an angel; she flew up and almost stayed Discordia in her path, but could not. That was the Maiden, I know. Astraea, Justice herself.'

'I saw her too!' said Henry. 'As I slept beside the Scales. She came to me in my dreams and told me never to box the ears of the Lord Chief Justice again, as I'd done once in my wilder days. I said I'd been but a silly youth then, and that I'd done my time in gaol for it, and made my peace with his Lordship after I'd become King. She said, “See that you do not repeat the offence. Be cautioned, do better in future, and we'll speak no more of it!” and she departed.'

Christine, who had looked up suddenly from her daughter, said, 'You never told me about that.'

'No, I did not!' laughed Henry. 'I can't think why!' and she acknowledged this sally with a smile, before motioning to Montjoy to continue.

'There was a crow; it flapped after us for a while, cawing encouragement to Discordia.' The herald was speaking more easily now. Words were his realm, after all. 'Far over the sea we heard a wolf howl, and she howled back at it. Then there was the Scorpion. That was the most fearsome of them all. Its tail arched up at us, and I think it caught Discordia a glancing blow, for she cursed it and seemed to stagger in her flight. On the borders of its land we came back down to the sky-floor, and we were hurried into the Dragon's Tail. And there we were imprisoned, and de Rais and Discordia held urgent conference beyond our hearing. And that was the worst of all; Marie was afraid, and I could not comfort her for fear de Rais and Discordia would use that against us.'

'That would have been hard for you, I know.'

'Harder for her; but once they were gone I took her hand and told her that her mother, and you, would be sure to find us.' He lowered his voice for a moment. 'I dared not tell her of how we'd fought our way back from the past, lest she blurt it out to Giles – she's but a child, after all – but I said that you are the most valiant knight in all Europe.'

'Oh, it's not true!' But Henry was smiling, looking fondly at his herald, and a little sadly too. His reputation had been built on terrible battles, after all.

'I told her that you would see it as your duty to find us and hunt down de Rais. I said that Discordia herself would think twice before standing against you. I told her that we two should be ready to help you if need be. She liked that idea, and we began to lay our plans.'

'Perhaps it's as well I didn't have to fight Discordia,' said Henry. 'De Rais was quite enough for me to deal with. But I would have fought her if need be.'

'I know.' Montjoy gave him a fond look. 'And Mars himself too, I don't doubt.'

'No, he helped us, and gave me a stern lecture on my duty the while! And I believe I must follow either his path, or Discordia's, in future, and that choice is no choice.'

'It would be better if you were to follow the Lady Venus, or Minerva,' said Christine tartly, and Iaso and her sisters nodded considered agreement.

'Minerva has her liege-woman in you - but I do not forget Venus' words.' His hand found Montjoy's and he held it, hard, earning himself a warm smile.

'Well,' continued Montjoy, 'Marie and I waited, imprisoned in the knot of the Dragon's Tail, while Discordia and de Rais talked of the Head, and went off to spy out how it lay. I dreaded their return, but Marie and I decided how we should strike if we got the chance.'

'I was going to distract him, by begging for mercy, and when Montjoy hit him, I would do the same,' said Marie.

'It's always a good idea to distract your opponents, and it would have worked, I'm sure, but I'm glad it wasn't necessary,' said Henry, one warrior to another. 'Because then what would be left for me to do?' This went down quite well, he was relieved to see. His youngest sister was another such fighter, but he lacked wider experience with children.

Montjoy went on, 'They had scarcely come back when we all got a surprise – for Lord Mercury appeared, with a message to Discordia from Jove himself, requiring that she return to her own sphere. Even she could not refuse such a summons – but she said that she would exult when you were dead, for she would have free rein in France, and Giles would be her liege-man there. And she leapt up again, and departed, flying less swiftly now; but we were glad to see her go.

'I still feared for Marie, but Lord Mercury winked at me, and drew de Rais aside, whispering in his ear, and hustled him off for a while. De Rais came back alone, but he looked a little dazed at first, and didn't come near us, but paced about the Dragon's Tail – and it was but an hour or two later that you and Christine appeared.' He sighed. 'How glad I was to see you.' He and Henry smiled at each other.

'Christine unmade the spell that had been laid on us - '

'Ah, our talisman worked, then!'

'Talisman, quadrant and almanac. I needed all three,' said Christine. 'Here's the talisman; you should have it now.' She passed it to him, and he stowed it away in the purse at this belt.

'You're a notable scholar, Christine, and level-headed, and brave to boot.' Henry took her hand and shook it a little, as one equal to another. 'I’ll have a plan to put to you when we return, but we'll speak of that later.' He looked back at Montjoy. 'Tell me what happened next.'

'It took a while for Christine to free us, but then we scrambled out of the knot of the Dragon's Tail as fast as we could. We were glad to be out of it; it was a oppression to our spirits. I ran with Marie and Christine to the border of Ophiucus, to see them out of the Scorpion's land. I hardly knew what to do, whether to see them safe or go after you, but Marie...'

'You had to keep her safe,' said Henry.

'I've done so little, this time around,' said Montjoy. He looked downcast for a moment.

'And last time you brought us all safe home, and if it hadn't been for you, de Rais would still have been at large,' said Henry quickly. 'No-one can do everything – and I was glad to be able to act, for it's little enough that I did, back there in the past.'

Montjoy looked as if he might dispute this, so Henry added, 'And when they were safe, you came back to help if you could.' His tone stated that this closed the matter as far as he was concerned.

'Yes. I saw you tumbling towards me on the Dragon's roar. But it seemed possible that there could be no lasting harm done, since you'd survived both de Rais and the Dragon!'

'And there was not, and by that time the Tail had moved and was touching the border of our domain,' said Iaso, and changed the subject, for Marie was looking a little solemn and round-eyed at the memory. 'At least, I believe there was not. King Henry, you've rested and eaten; how do you feel now?'

'I feel - ' Henry paused to assess himself ' - a new man!' He stood up, paced about experimentally, and laughed. 'My ladies, sir, you and your father are peerless physicians.' He bowed to them all, and they acknowledged their due with all courtesy.

'I would advise that you move around a little, to make sure your ankle is fully mended, and to work the ligaments,' said Iaso. 'Go, take Montjoy with you to lend his arm; explore our land for yourselves while you have the chance!' From which, Henry knew that she was giving them permission to be alone together, to savour their reunion in privacy. 'We'll look after Christine and Marie here,' she continued; 'we've much to talk about, much to learn of the world below!'

They had to step over another snake as they did so, copper and royal red, and this time he could acknowledge its beauty. At the foot of the stairs, the lawn fell away to drifts of all manner of herbs and flowers, and paths wound gently down towards the sweet groves and glades of Ophiucus.

Their talk meandered, like the paths, but here, away from Marie, Henry was able to ask what he now wanted to know: why de Rais had taken Montjoy from Troyes.

'I'd been in Paris three days. Sir Thomas was still with me; he will have told you all that passed.'

'Yes, he did.'

'There were folk in plenty who were dismayed to hear of your return. The Dauphin, of course. The heirs of the men who died in the battle. Queen Isabeau, I think. Anyone who had hoped to profit from King Charles' incapacity. Most of them Frenchmen.'

Henry linked their hands together, and nodded in sympathy; neither of them had many illusions about the loyalty of some of the French nobles to their King, but to a true heart like Montjoy's it must be distressing to have this confirmed. Montjoy continued, 'Well, your return, and Westmoreland's arrival at Calais, and Burgundy's influence were enough to show them their course. We set out for Troyes. I was riding with the other heralds by then. They had heard all kinds of rumours, and wanted to know what had happened, for your absence all those weeks had to be accounted for. So as we agreed, I said we'd been waylaid by forces that I could not quite explain, but with God's help had found our way home. That began a discussion of all kinds of strange tales they'd heard at this court or that; of attempts to raise spirits, of what exactly Tommaso did in his tower at Fontainebleau, of peasant children disappearing. No-one knew how many, they were only peasants after all.' He sounded immeasurably weary. 'There was more talk when de Rais and his heralds arrived with the last of the great nobles. And then you came, and signed the treaty.'

'Yes. It was difficult, seeing you there.'

A fleeting glance. 'Yes. I could not think how to warn you of all I'd heard. You were caught up in the protocol of the court. And I could not approach any of your people directly, so in the end I told the other heralds I was uneasy, and left messages in my own quarters and in Reynard's gear. I hoped word would get through, one way or another.'

'The French herald was circumspect, but we had an inkling from him; and we found what you'd left with Reynard.'

'I hope Reynard's safe,' said Montjoy wistfully.

'He is. We brought him with us. I rode him out of Troyes myself. I would not leave him behind. He's there at Fontainebleau.'

Henry was rewarded once more by Montjoy's lovely smile; then he continued. 'So that night, I was taken from my room by men I recognised. Men from Rais. I'd seen one or two of them with de Rais as I left St-Malo. They drugged me, I think, and when I woke I was in a cart of some kind. After a while de Rais rode by, and asked if it was me that had brought you back. I said no, it had been God's hand that had done it, and he laughed and struck me.'

'I'm glad I didn't let him die easily,' said Henry in a savage undertone.

'We rode west for Fontainebleau, and they were watching me every moment. I had no chance even to leave a message, let alone escape. Nor would I have done, if I could. And one of my captors was de Rais' herald: Princé. I had never thought that a herald could do such a thing.'

Henry made to say something, but Montjoy continued without pause, 'He had been there when I told the other heralds what little I did. That was how de Rais knew how badly his plans had gone astray. I told him myself!'

He paused for a moment, looking straight ahead, but returned the increased pressure of Henry's fingers. Then he continued, 'Well, we crossed the river, and went on westwards. I feared we were going to Fontainebleau. And they took a child here, and a child there, as they went. Princé did that.' Now there was real distress in his voice. 'I knew of the rumours. I feared for them. There was nothing I could do.'

'Some of the people told Christine their children had vanished. I knew why they were taken.'

'You did?'

'The hourglass. I never told you what visions it gave me, when I touched it and fought it in the land of the sail-backs. But there were other children, and their blood went into its making. It was the same with the quadrant.'

'I hoped you'd find it, but I'm sorry it cost you another battle. It was all I could think of, to get it out of Gilles' control.'

'You did that? That was a brave deed.'

'Yes, as soon as the Lion said you were in the sky-country I knew you were following us, and when he and Discordia fought, I kicked it further off in the confusion. You fought it and won, I take it, like the hourglass.' Montjoy looked at him, not asking the question.

'Yes. It was bad. Did you know where it had come from?'

'Christine told me. King Richard, she said, and the Scroops,' and Montjoy stopped again.

'Yes. And so my father's transgression haunts me still. I was prepared for the evil in it, after the hourglass – but having Scroop whisper to me, as if alive once more – ah, that was a trial.'

'You defeated it. As you defeated him.'

'And myself too; my own wish to forgive, to save him... Well, enough of him, and of the quadrant; it's beaten now, too.'  


They walked on silently for a few moments.

'Dear Herald,' said Henry softly after a while, 'There's something I have to know. Those cuts on you, the bruises... did he – or Princé..?'

'No, they did not. I was far too old for them. He amused himself a little, that's all.'

Henry felt his body slump in relief. 'If he had - ' he began viciously, but Montjoy interrupted.

'There were children, Henry, is that not enough?' And Henry nodded; it was more than enough.

'To kill a King of Arms, that would get him noticed; all the children were peasants, except for Christine's.'

'He took them to bring Tommaso to heel, that's plain enough. But why take you?'

‘He knew there was something between us. Maybe they noted us at St-Malo; maybe there had been rumours before. The heralds always talk amongst themselves.'

'But there was nothing to talk about, before!'

'No. But there might still have been rumours.'

They looked at each other, remembering their meetings before they had been hurled into the past. 'Yes,' Henry said, 'there might well have been rumours. And that's my fault. I was less careful than I could have been. There was always so much to think about besides dissimulation.'

'It's not your fault; neither was I properly careful,' said Montjoy, coming to his defence. 'But it gave de Rais a good chance either way. He could have used me as a hostage against you. Or, if you followed after me, the marriage would be called off and France would go back to what it was before you came – nobles striving against nobles, no strong central rule, and he could indulge his tastes in safety and snatch at more lands too. He didn't bargain for the completeness of your response.'

'No. And he was right, the treaty's over and done with now.'

Montjoy sighed. 'Was it worth abandoning it? You were our best hope of strong rule.'

'Yes, to be rid of de Rais, if we are to talk politics; and to find you, if we are to talk of ourselves – but France will be the safer for his destruction. It's safer at this moment.' A thought struck him. 'I’ll maybe send men down the Loire to Gascony, and have them raze all his castles on the way, to hammer home the lesson. Exeter can lead them, perhaps.'

At that, they both smiled. Exeter would relish the task.

'Go on with your story. Tell me what happened at Fontainebleau,' said Henry.

'We were put into a cell. De Rais brought Tommaso to us once, to frighten him, but we didn't see him again until the last hour. I heard your assault begin, and we thought we were almost free – not so, alas! De Rais came and put his knife to Marie's throat, and told me to follow along and I went willingly. He took us up to the tower room at a run, and there was Tommaso again. He gave me one desperate look, and went on with his work. We could do nothing while he had his hands on Marie.'

'If I'd been just half a day earlier,' said Henry, 'I could have spared you all that. I wasted time. To come unscathed through the past, and be taken by a - ' snake, he almost said ' - spider like de Rais!'

'You were quicker than I could believe. The treaty was important.'

'The treaty doesn't matter. We've done something far more important here in the sky-country; destroyed a terrible enemy of both England and France.' He let go of Montjoy's hand, and slid an arm round his waist instead. 'I'll get word out of what's happened, by this means or that. And though you couldn't help those other children, you stayed with Marie and Jean as long as you could, and I don't doubt they were very glad you were with them.'

'I was glad of her company too, there in the Dragon's Tail, though I wished she was safe and far away,' said Montjoy, 'It was a miserable place. Her courage helped me, I'll admit. She's her mother's daughter, to be sure. I met her once or twice, at court, but now I know her better, I think she'll grow to be as formidable a woman as her mother.'

'Yes, Christine said you'd met Marie – and she knew you'd protect her, and so did I. Well, if I can persuade them, I’ll bring them all to England when we go home. For I’ve given my word I know not how many times, and to powers aplenty, that I’ll give up all my conquests in France; and to be honest, it's safest for us all.'

Montjoy stopped, and stared. 'Truly? To give up the chance to be king of France, that's one thing – but to abandon your gains in Normandy too?'

'Yes, I truly will. It's necessary – and right too. I know that now, though it took a while for me to learn it! And you'll come with me, I hope, to be safe and to teach us. The Lady Venus told me to hold fast to my true love, and that I shall do.' He halted, and with his free hand drew Montjoy's head down to his own, and kissed him, almost formally. 'Should he wish it.'

'Yes, I wish it.' Montjoy sighed. 'It was only my duty that took me from you, you know that.'

They began to walk again, slowly, towards the trees, which were very close now, silver-edged leaves rustling in the gentlest of breezes. 'Of course I know. No-one can say otherwise. But I think you can best serve France now by coming home with me, and there in England we'll devise a defence against the sorcerers.'

'And the princess?'

'She'll be found another husband soon, if not already, and a better! I did my best for her, Herald, you know that! Nor did I break even a betrothal,' he added earnestly, persuasively, 'only the arrangement for one - and events have proved me right in that.'

'Yes,' said Montjoy. 'I don't know whether to be glad or sorry for it. I'd hoped to buy peace, you know, and I thought I could be the price. It was all I could do.'

'The price was too high for me. But in the end, you were right; if we'd done what I wanted, brought both you and the princess to England, she to bear my children and you to warm my bed, it would have ended in ruination everywhere.' He paused, at the thought of all that it would have entailed. 'She would have been nothing but a brood mare, I a user confirmed' (not an image he wished to have of himself) 'and you would have hated yourself. And de Rais and his sorceries would have had time to grow unchecked.'

Disaster so narrowly averted.

'I would like to see the princess and her father safe,' said Montjoy softly; not as though he were trying to wheedle Henry into doing anything, simply wishing.

'We'll do what we may when we return,' said Henry. 'Not that I really wish to leave this place so soon!' He gazed round at the twilit world of the sky-country. 'Maybe the Church will help us too; it was a terrible sorcery that de Rais employed. Maybe not. It'll take all my authority to get my countrymen back to England. But do you think of ways we might help your people. And your family and friends too. I know so little of you, love, there's never been the time. Think how you might send messages to them. They can join us if they wish.'

They fell silent, contemplating all that must be done.

'Come,' said Henry after a little while. 'We're here now, and will never come here again. Let's enjoy it while we can.'

The grass was soft and springy beneath their feet, the twilight no longer strange to them, and overhead, the translunary stars shone like steady flames in the sky-country's sky. The sounds of talk and laughter from the little pleasaunce away up the hill died away in the distance. They set aside matters of state and sorcery, and forgot everything but that they were alone again at last. Choosing a path at random, they passed together, hands linked, into the enchanted woods of Ophiucus.

Here, a while later, as they were lying on a mossy bank above a marble basin fed by a spring, Henry took one of the rings of silver and pearl that he had worn since Troyes, and gave it back to Montjoy, who put it on and folded his hands around it; and Henry clasped his own around Montjoy's.  
-x-

After another hour, or maybe two, Aesculapius' voice boomed from his house on the hill. 'King Henry! Herald Montjoy!'

Then there was a smaller, piping voice. 'There's someone here for us! Hurry!'

That brought them hastening up from the woods to the white house. And on the lawns before it was a chariot and driver, with a team of four horses, all dark almost to blackness, and a group of people standing in conversation before it; their hosts, and Christine, holding her daughter's hand.

'Your ankle is well mended, I see!' said Aesculapius, as they hurried up the last slope.

'Thanks to your skill, my lord,' he answered, and Aesculapius smiled at the compliment; but then turned to the chariot's driver and bowed.

'Majesty, here they are.'

She was barely visible, so shadowed was she, though there were opalescent gleams here and there, but she was tall, surely over-topping Henry by a head, and seemed lithe. Now he glimpsed a coronet in the shape of a crescent on her head; he could make out a tall bow in a case at the side of the chariot, and her horses were winged. Henry stared for a moment more, then bowed very low, for he knew who this was.

'Well met, King Henry! Herald, be welcome!' The voice was utterly assured, but had a wild music in it too.

The horses stamped and snorted softly, one of them half-opened its wings. Henry found his voice. 'Your majesty; great lady. We've seen you, in this sky-country, now and again. I never dreamed that we would meet you.'

'Nor would have done, save that I am in my dark now. For a short while I am free to go where I will. Rumour's told me of your journeyings, your battles; I know you spoke with the Dragon and came away alive. Now I may aid you. So I say to you all: mount up, and I’ll take you the first part of your journey home.'

'I – Majesty. We are all more grateful than I can say. My lords; my ladies - ' and he turned towards Aesculapius and his children, his hands held out; and they were grasped by strong skilled hands in turn. Christine said her farewells, and urged Marie to to the same.

'Take them with you,' one of Aesculapius' daughters said to Marie, and closed her hand round a little bag; with the knucklebones in it, perhaps?

Beside him, Montjoy said, 'How shall we address you, Majesty?'

'I have many names, and you know them all, I don't doubt. But you may call me the Huntress,' and Henry, turning back towards her, saw one shadowy hand reach out and touch that tall bow. 'Up with you, now!'

'Go,' said Aesculapius. 'Remember what I said, King Henry; there's hope for you yet.'

'I pray you're right, sir, and I will not forget,' said Henry, and set his foot on the floor of the Moon's chariot.

It was roomier than Lord Mars' light war-chariot, and could carry them all. 'Marie; come stand beside me. Watch where we go; you'll see sights to remember. You bear Our Lady's name; she loves you well, I don't doubt!' Marie wriggled forward between their bodies, and stood next to the Huntress, her hands on the chariot's rim, jigging up and down with excitement. Christine moved up to stand beside her. Henry and Montjoy were close behind them.

'Put the bar across, one of you, for we'll be flying high,' she said over her shoulder, and Montjoy looked about him, found the bar and slotted it into place. 'Now: hold tight. My friends,' this to Aesculapius and his family, 'until next time!'

The horses were stamping softly, eager to be off; the chariot's floor rocked slightly under Henry's feet. The physicians stepped back a few paces; he lifted a hand to them in farewell. 'Thank-you! I will not forget!'

'Go with God!'

The Huntress shook the reins; the horses trotted over the turf, picked up speed. Christine looked over her shoulder and exchanged a brilliant smile with Henry. She knew what to expect now. A canter, a gallop. The wings opened, swept down in sudden thunder, and they were off, up into the sky-country's sky. The white house on the hill swung swiftly below them; one circuit for leave-taking, climbing all the while, and they left it far behind.

Now, at last, they were going home. Below them the silvery landscape stretched far away on every side; pasture, hills and great starry seas, with the people and creatures and objects therein diminishing beneath them. Still they climbed into the heavens, far higher than Lord Mars had taken them.

When the team had settled to level flight, the Huntress glanced round and remarked, 'Twice a year, King Henry, I must cross the Dragon's path, and sometimes it's a fierce battle and almost consumes me. I do not comprehend why you came through unscathed.'

'I took a chance, Huntress. I was born in Wales, the land of the dragon. I thought perhaps it would let me pass.'

She flung back her head, and laughed, her long dark hair streaming out behind her, whipping across Henry's face. 'Of all the chances to take! That's a capricious beast. One cannot be too careful with dragons; there are enough of them in the sky. Well, King Henry – I salute you!'

'Majesty, no, I beg - ' Henry was deeply embarrassed, but she merely raised her hand to her temple, inclining her head to him, as a mighty prince might to a subject, honouring him. Then she turned her attention back to her team, and Henry was smiling to himself for a while thereafter.

Later still, far away on their right, across the Hydra's sea – that immense sea that had seemed all but neverending - they saw a country of lofty mountains. 'There dwell the Centaur and the Wolf,' said the Huntress. 'Do you see what else is there?' She pointed.

On the highest peak was something that shone gloriously golden. A mighty cross.

'That...' whispered Montjoy.

'Is what you think it is,' said the Huntress, and they all gazed and gazed, silent; and each of them brought their hands together in an instinctive gesture of prayer and praise.  
-x-

For a long while the Huntress' team flew on across the night, and they left the Cross on its high hill far behind them. To the north was the savannah-country of the Lions – how he wished he'd met them! - and the distant peaks of the Bear's land beyond. To the south, the ocean, stitched with seafire, stretched away towards the celestial pole, and Henry glimpsed once again the distant flat-topped mountain that he had seen from the deck of the _Argo_. He pointed it out to Montjoy. 'We're coming close, I think,' he said, and the Huntress, hearing him, nodded.

'There lies your way home.' She pointed ahead with her whip, and ahead there was land, with wooded hills and meadows, and a white beach stretching down to the sea; and waiting off the beach, a great ship with eyes painted on its prow.

The winged horses slowed, and began to descend. Down there on the deck of the ship, they could see a crowd of people looking up.

'What's this?' muttered Henry, leaning over the chariot's side, the wind of their passage lifting his hair. For as they drew closer, he could see that some few of the people there were not dressed in chitons, but in more familiar clothes. 'Surely not..?'

Montjoy, close at his side, whispered, 'People like us!'

But the wonder of their ride through the night sky took them again, and since it was drawing to an end, they took their attention from the ship and the people on its after-deck. The Huntress was calling to her horses, 'Slow now, my friends, you know where we go.' The wide wings settled to a steadier beat, and they swept down in a great wide circle towards the Argo. The folk on her deck were staring upwards now, pointing, and faint cries of welcome drifted up; the oars dipped, like gulls' wings themselves, and the ship stood in towards the shore.

Now the horses were flying low and level across the very tree-tops of the Unicorn's land; the topmost leaves brushed the chariot-wheels once or twice. Little glades and copses passed right beneath them. And suddenly, there was the lord of the domain himself; rearing with tossing golden mane, nickering a welcome to the virgin Huntress, and cantering along, keeping pace easily, the embodiment of grace and speed.

Over the foreshore the horses flew still lower, barely the height of a man above the ground. Now they held their wings wide and still, and the chariot dropped, dropped. Now they touched their hooves to ground, galloping at first, then slowing to a walk, to a halt. The Unicorn neighed in formal greeting, and the crew of the _Argo_ called out across the water; and there was a rousing English cheer too.

'It really is - !' said Henry, but then was distracted again, although it was no surprise at all when the Unicorn spoke.

'Great queen, you are welcome to my land!' he said.

'My lord, we're glad to see you!' She addressed him easily, and inclined her head. 'We ask passage through your land for these folk; just a little way, to meet with their friends.'

'Lady, you need not ask; I’ll grant it willingly. I took note of their journeying not long ago, and gave them free passage, since they went in quest of the little maid; and they've found her, I see! She may ride on my back, if she wishes.'

Marie caught her breath. 'May I? Mother, may I?'

'Of course, since the Lord Unicorn is so kind,' said Christine.

'Here, let me,' and the Huntress lifted the little girl up easily and swung her over the chariot's rim, to sit astride the white back. She reached out a tentative hand, and stroked the golden mane.

'Like silk,' she whispered.

Christine leaned over and prompted her. 'Thank-you, sir, Huntress,' Marie said.

Montjoy stepped down from the Moon's chariot, and held out his hand, first for Henry, then for Christine. Away out on the shore, Argo was being beached in the same narrow creek that had been used before. People were climbing down her side and splashing through the shallow water, up onto the borders of the Unicorn's land.

The Huntress was speaking to Christine. Taking her hands, she said in a low voice, 'Lady, you have done well. No mother could have done more.'

Christine smiled, but shook her head, and said, 'Majesty, no mother worth the name would have done less.'

'Aye, that's true enough!' laughed the Huntress. 'Marie, may God watch over you wherever you go. Montjoy, fortune smile on you in your new path! And King Henry, a private word with you.'

The others turned away politely to watch Marie and the Unicorn, and Henry stepped close to the chariot. Its driver's face was sterner now, and she knelt down to whisper in his ear.

'You've done well, too, young king, mistake me not: you're the stuff of legend! But know this.' Now it was in her aspect of Hecate, that archaic and terrible goddess, that she was speaking, not the swift Huntress. 'If ever I hear that thou'st made threats against children again, and thou strayest into the sky-country once more, I’ll turn thine own words upon thee. I'll have thy _balls_ \- and _not_ for gunstones!'

All at once they tried to cram up into his body. It had been an empty threat that he'd made at Harfleur, born of desperation. It would never do to plead that now. 'Yes, Majesty,' he whispered.

She laughed. 'Thou'rt grown since then. Thou canst do better now. Rule wisely, King Henry. Be just. Have a care to thy people, and thou'lt do well enough.'

'I mean to, Huntress,' and she was, indeed, the Huntress again.

'Then you're a king indeed. Take this as a reminder, master of archers.' She pulled an arrow out of the quiver hanging from the chariot's rim. Black, with black feathers, iridescent, from her winged horses, no doubt. 'Now,' she continued, 'look to your friends!'

And there they were; his youngest brother, approaching with his face half smiles, half astonishment. A pace behind were Sergeant Bates, John Melton, the king's guide by night, and Richard Calder the huntsman, bows firmly in hand. They were looking about them curiously, ready for whatever this strange country might bring, as they had always been ready, for anything and everything. Behind them came Jason and the crew of the _Argo_ , and they stopped at the high water mark and bowed to the Unicorn.

Henry emerged from Gloucester's fierce embrace to see Montjoy letting go of Bates' hands: he caught a glimpse of Marie, cantering along the beach on the Unicorn's back with joy blazing from her, and surely that was Calder handing his bow to the Huntress for her inspection! Then Christine was catching at Gloucester's elbow. Henry caught a few words – 'My son?' and Gloucester's 'Yes, he's safe, madame.'

But after a little time, the hubbub died down, and they were left smiling foolishly at each other. The Huntress said, 'Lord Unicorn, King Jason, King Henry, I must now depart, for I would have words with Discordia before my dark is done. Be true to one another, in this world and the world below, and you'll come through. Christine, there's one thing more: that quadrant. It's an evil thing, for all that King Henry hallowed it, and I will dispose of it for you.' Christine found it in her satchel, and gave it to her. 'Now farewell, and God watch over you all!'

Every one of them knelt, and she acknowledged their courtesy. Then she spoke to her black horses, and they snorted, picked up a trot, a canter, opened their wings and were off, away into the sky-country's sky, and were gone, dark upon dark – and at the last, a plummeting gleam showed that she had hurled the quadrant contemptuously into the waters of the River.

'Ah, that's the model of what a woman should be!' said Christine, gazing after her, with her hand on Marie's shoulder, who had slid from the Unicorn's back when he bent the knee to the queen of the night sky. 'We must try to live up to her, you and I.'

The Unicorn, suddenly skittish now that the virgin Moon was gone, sidled, tossed his beautiful head, and said, 'Now, friends, you should be on your way. I'm glad of guests once in a while, but there are so many of you, more than my land has seen in many a long year! King Jason, back to your ship! You folk of the world below, go with God and His Son. And I’ll leave the shore-lands and go back to my domain.'

Marie ran forward and stroked his mane once more, and said, 'Thank-you for the ride, Sir. It was wonderful.'

'I'm glad you enjoyed it, sweeting.' Then he gathered himself and was off, like racing moonlight himself, and moments later all that was left of him were cloven hoof-prints in the sand.

-x-

An hour later, and the _Argo_ had been poled off and was under way again, and a feast was in progress on her deck.

Atalanta had greeted Christine with a grin, 'Why, Christine, I believe you've grown! Your old garments will not fit you now.'

'I believe I have,' said Christine with a twist of a smile, 'You're right, I can never put them on again.' Henry knew he looked blank for a moment, and finally caught their meaning, and was unsurprised thereafter that Christine continued to wear the loose-fitting chiton that Iaso and her sisters had given her; though she'd given Atalanta's hunting-boots back to her and now wore sandals instead.

It was a mighty feast, with roast meat and red wine (and how had Butes come by those?) Henry and Montjoy shared a rower's bench, brought up from below, and drank from a single bronze cup. Jason and Gloucester sat opposite them, and Christine and Marie, the other guests of honour, had low chairs. When the first urgent business of feasting was done, and they had time to spare, all their stories had to be told once more (without benefit of advantages, since this was, after all, the crew of the _Argo_ they were with!) Then Gloucester spoke of how they'd sweated over the spell, with Tommaso re-casting it as best he could.

Christine asked, 'Is he well, my lord?'

'Yes, madame, and eager enough to help, you may be sure. We may have manhandled him a little to begin with,' and here Christine sucked in her breath, but Gloucester continued sternly, 'We feared for our king, my lady, as you feared for your children! And he was eager to help us, for he feared for you and Marie no less, so we worked together well enough in the end.

'We remade the conditions of the spell as best we could, and all but miscast it when it came to the point - because I’d forgotten the pendant of _Argo_ that you were wearing, brother! But in the end, all was set, and we chose the best men for the task,' and Bates and Calder, sitting back against the bulwarks, replete, grinned bashfully, and Melton likewise looked up from where he'd been in earnest conversation with Nauplius the navigator. 'We came up into the sky – ah, I can hardly believe it even now! - and found ourselves aboard the Argo, but King Jason would not let us go ashore. He said he'd heard that you were returning even then, and we'd see you before long.'

Publicly, he said no more. But when the feast was winding down, and half its celebrants were dropping off to sleep, he spoke in a low voice to Henry as they leaned on the rail and gazed out across the shining waves of the River.

'Brother, there's one thing more. We were not over-courteous with Tommaso at first, I’ll admit. We remembered what he'd done to us before, as well as what was happening now. But then he showed us proof of who had commissioned that first spell. And it was none other than Queen Isabeau herself!'

'Isabeau!' Henry gaped for a moment or two, lost for words, and glanced round at the members of Isabeau's court who had come so far with him and become such fast friends. Then he turned back to his brother. 'All the while, we thought it was de Rais – and now you say it was her all along!'

'Tommaso was caught between them; he tried to escape to Italy, but de Rais' spies found him and brought him back. Both de Rais and Isabeau wanted you out of France, for you'd've stopped their little games. And both hit upon the same means. But without de Rais' power – and we found a little vial of blood' – Henry nodded grimly – 'it might have come to nothing. Isabeau had the reins of government, and did not mean to give them up. And de Rais, we may infer, simply wanted to enjoy himself without limits.' He shut his mouth on that.

Henry bowed his head, and scrubbed his hands over his face. 'Tommaso is not the only astrologer of note in Europe. She'll find other men to use. Well, short of capturing her and putting her on trial, which would be a little difficult, we've done all we can for the moment. But we've been behindhand in the arcane arts, and I mean to remedy that. You and Montjoy must found a school of astrology at Oxford. And I’ll offer posts to Madame Christine and her father, too. Christine is my friend now, and I’ve grown fond of Marie. I’d like to see them both safe – and their knowledge can only help us. And we'll make recompense to Tommaso for whatever he's suffered at our hands – oh, don't look like that, I want him on our side!'

Gloucester said wryly, 'You have been thinking, brother.'

'In between adventures,' sighed Henry.

'I wish – oh, I wish I’d shared in them!'

'I envied you your Quest of the Duckweed! You don't know how much.'

'Aye, that's true enough. But to go on a quest across the sky...'

'Few enough have got this far. You've spoken with the Huntress and the Unicorn - and the Cross Itself is over yonder!' He pointed to where it could just be seen, distant, glorious, on the eastern horizon. 'We're aboard the _Argo_ , and we've feasted with King Jason and his crew. How many can say as much?'

'True. It is a most wonderful thing.' Gloucester propped himself on his folded arms on the rail, and gazed out across the waves of the River, shining with seafire, while above them the square sail bellied out, carrying them back towards the southern skies.

-x-

A little while later, Jason appeared at Henry's elbow. 'King Henry, come. You must sleep, you and the Duke your brother; and when you wake you'll be back in the world below. We've enjoyed your company, but your time here is done, alas!'

'Alas indeed,' sighed Henry. 'King Jason – thank-you. There are not the words.'

'No thanks are necessary, King Henry. Follow now.'

They went down the ladder below-decks, and there, on pallets, were the rest of their party; all asleep, all sound asleep; perhaps there had been something in the wine. But they looked contented enough, peaceful enough. There was Montjoy, and Marie next to him, and then Christine. The three English archers were across the gangway.

'Put on your sword, to take it with you,' said Jason quietly. 'There is the Huntress' arrow; do not forget that either! And now, sleep, sleep, both of you. Fare you well. Look for us, when you look up; and we'll look for you when we look down.'

He gripped Gloucester's shoulder in farewell. There were two empty pallets waiting; Gloucester took one, and was asleep within moments. But Henry held on a little longer, though he felt a heavy languor stealing over him, for he had one last thing to do.

'So many have helped us along the way, King Jason,' he said drowsily. 'To you and the Argonauts, who welcomed us into this country, I have something more than thanks to give.' He took from around his neck the pendant of the Argo, with its diamond star. 'Take this as a guest-gift, I beg.'

Jason wound the chain around his fingers and smiled down at the little silver ship, turning and glinting in the lantern-light. 'Thank-you, King Henry. That's a royal gift. We'll hang it on the mainmast, as a reminder of our friends from the world below.'

He embraced Henry, as one king to another; and Henry laid himself down next to his herald, as he had done so many times before. He tucked the arrow through his sword-belt so that he should not lose it. Jason was going up the ladder again, his footfalls soft on the wooden steps, and looked round once more at his passengers. Henry's eyes were closing, but he exchanged one last smile with his fellow-king; and then, at long last, let sleep take him.

-x-

The easy pitch and sway of the _Argo_ stayed with him for a while, and the quiet sounds of a ship under way as she voyaged on into the unknown southern skies. He heard, or dreamed he heard, the rattle of a pennon, spray falling on the foredeck, voices; Jason calling out a heading to Tiphys, Atalanta's clear laugh, a rumble from Nauplius. But these dropped away slowly – or was it he himself that dropped, deeper into sleep? And as he sank down, it seemed to him that the planking of the deck over his head lifted, and the low, narrow space he was in widened out, and the motion of the ship stilled.

Movement, a little way off to one side. More voices. 'It is! It's them!' Footsteps, hurrying, and a door opening, and a shout.

He turned on his pallet, sighing, and his hand, fumbling for his sword-hilt, encountered an arrow; yes, an arrow: feathers, and, as he made to sit up, a point that jabbed into his groin.

The Huntress' arrow, giving him a sharp reminder of his promise. He smiled, still half-asleep, grumbling to himself the while; and then there were more footsteps, swift and heavy this time, and he was hauled to his feet and engulfed in an embrace that would have done justice to a bear.

'Nephew!'

-x-

After that it was a matter of more and more people filling up the room, and a babble of voices, spreading down the spiral stair and into the castle courtyard. Someone was flinging shutters wide to shout the news further still, and even the pale dawn light was enough to make him flinch and cover his eyes; 'Go slowly there!' he ordered, 'we've come from a long night, all of us.'

Hasty apologies, and the shutters were closed again, and he said, 'Let's be off this floor,' and he and all his friends dragged their pallets – bedding from the _Argo_ , not lightly to be abandoned! away from the painted Zodiac.

He glanced up once, and the stars above him were painted too.

Alas for lost enchantment.

But there was no time for such thoughts now. 'Uncle, what's been happening? How long have we been gone?'

'Four nights. We've been beside ourselves. Sire, where have you been?'

Henry laughed. 'Up in the night sky, hobnobbing with gods and heroes. This I had from the Moon herself,' he held up the arrow, and saw the black feathers had an edge of pale light glowing along them, and knew that if the windows were unshuttered, she would be showing a new crescent. Had she had time to find Discordia? He would never know. He smiled at the arrow. 'Lady, farewell.'

Exeter stared, deprived of speech for once, and Gloucester laid a hand on his arm. 'It's all true, uncle; I've spoken with the Huntress too. But Henry and the rest have been half across the sky and back again.'

'We saw shooting-stars two nights back,' said Exeter, 'was that anything to do with you, nephew?'

Exeter was adjusting fast to this unlikeliest of tales, but then he'd seen wonders himself in the last few months. Henry, thinking back two sleeps, said, 'Maybe. I was fighting de Rais, up there in Aries. We struck sparks enough. Maybe you saw our battle!'

And that simple statement silenced his uncle again; Exeter looked at him not in disbelief but in astonishment, until Henry laughed again and said, 'Time enough to tell our tales when we're on our way. De Rais is dead, that's all that matters. But we can't delay; Gloucester tells me this conspiracy ran deeper than we ever guessed at. So: we must be out of this place, and have it destroyed and be off back to England with all haste.' He looked round for Montjoy, found him close at hand, and gathered him in with a glance. 'All of us,' and received his herald's grave, sweet smile in return. 'Let's be at it!' and he headed determinedly for the stair.

-x-

Of course it could not all be laughter and the meeting of friends.

He heard the reports of what had been going on in his absence; the messages going out for the evacuation and the startled response from the nearest garrisons; saw the brief note from Isabeau to Tommaso that would prove her complicity and that of her current favourite; the books and instruments that Stephen had already exorcised and most of which would now be destroyed. But it was Westmoreland who took him to see the dungeon where all the children had been kept.

'We found the room where he played his games. Christ's love, sire, it's foul,' warned Westmoreland.

'All right. Tell me.'

Westmoreland drew a breath, and told him; and Henry knew beyond all doubt that he had done the right thing to break the treaty and ride like an arrow across half France. He had done God's work indeed.

'We'll get the local people in to see it, once we've finished searching the castle,' he said. 'We must have witnesses. Then we'll destroy the whole place.'

'Yes, and exorcise the ruins,' said Westmoreland. He rubbed his hands over his face, as if to wipe away the memories of what he'd found on the night of the attack, then added, 'We've buried the poor innocents who had died. For the rest, some have homes to go to. Some not.'

'We'll take the homeless waifs with us,' said Henry. The Huntress' arrow, that he still carried with him, was a reminder he hardly needed. 'Maybe a convent will take them in, and if not, they'll come with us to England. For now, they're safe with Christine and Emma.' Emma had taken charge of them, as a matter of course, along with Christine's Jean: Westmoreland had seen to it that they had all they needed, in a snatched hour between his other duties, and looked in on them a couple of times a day.

-x-

There was another thing that was less distressing. For Exeter said, 'It seems de Rais liked to travel with his riches about him. That cart that Montjoy was taken in – it was full of bags and chests, and there was another like it. We've a small fortune here to do with as we will. Erpingham's guarding it for now'

'It's been exorcised?' asked Henry sharply. A fortune was all very well – very welcome, in fact - and he'd have need of every penny he could scrape together to pay off his men in Normandy; but there were other considerations too.

'Stephen said he'd see to it once he'd helped me with the spell,' said Gloucester, grinning.

'You told me nothing of this!'

'No; well, we were on the _Argo_! Mundane treasure seemed irrelevant at the time. But it's a little surprise for your homecoming, brother.'

'And there are his estates in the west,' added Exeter, 'the spoils of war.'

'Brittany will want the ones nearest his own lands,' said Henry, 'and he can have them – they may keep him sweet. But there are others towards Gascony, I believe. We should deal with those.' Gascony; that was something else to think about. Further from Isabeau's grasping hands than Normandy, and the duchy had been a Plantagenet inheritance for centuries. Men could be sent there from the Normandy garrisons; they'd won a breathing-space, surely, with the defeat of de Rais? And he would not be breaking his word to the lords of the sky if he defended it. Perhaps – ah, here was a thought – Clarence could be persuaded to take on the task of governing Gascony. He'd had ambitions in that direction, once.

But the mention of the _Argo_ had put him in mind of something else. 'Where's Christine?'

-x-

She was with Marie and Jean, of course, and her cousin Emma, and a group of children from the castle. Rather than being allowed to run wild, or brood on what had happened, they were being taught their letters; Emma, seated on a stool, was tracing them on the ground with a stick, and a doubtful chorus repeated them. Henry strode up to their makeshift tent. He had declined to have Christine sent for; that would strike the wrong note entirely. She stood, as he came close, and the children with her; he took her hands (how strange it was, to touch a woman thus) then laughed and embraced her. 'So much to do, Christine; forgive me that I've been busy.'

'So have we been busy, telling our tales,' she said. 'My father's with Master Stephen and Montjoy, I think, going through de Rais' books. But we have been resting here, and working at our reading, and playing at knucklebones, some of us!'

Marie smiled up at him from where she was helping two or three younger girls with their letters, and held out the knucklebones that she had been given by the daughters of Aesculapius. Henry took them from her hand, and moved them around in his palm with a kind of wonderment. They'd brought a few little things with them from out of the sky. It was all truly real.

He tossed them all up into the air, and caught all but one and grubbed around on the grass for it, and handed them back to Marie with a laugh. 'You've a quicker hand than I, I think!'

'You'll take a cup of wine with us, perhaps?' asked Christine, looking at him narrowly. Already she knew him so well; knew he had things to say to her.

'I will, and I thank you.' He took the folding stool that Christine's servant brought out for him, and drank. 'We've much to do, you know that, and I cannot spend as much time with my friends as I'd like for the present. But I have a proposition to put to you.'

'Propose it, then,' she said composedly.

'You know I have plans to establish a school of astrology at Oxford,' he said.

'Of course – under Montjoy and your brother.'

'Well, it seems to me that we need all the knowledge and experience we can get. And it also seems to me that France may be an unchancy place for a while to come. So maybe we can come to an arrangement, you and I.'

'It depends on the details of this arrangement,' she pointed out.

'They would be that there's a place for you and yours at Oxford – and a teaching post for yourself if you wish it.'

'Me, to teach? A woman?'

'Of course; who better? You've seen more of the sky-country than anyone alive – save for me, and I hardly knew what I was seeing. I merely bumbled about, following directions. Your directions, as often as not.'

She laughed in disclaimer. 'I remember a king who would never give up, who broke the key to an evil spell, who fought one of the sky-lords and gave as good as he got!'

Henry smiled at the reminder of his tussle with the Dolphin, there amid the swirling sea-fire, while Christine paused for a moment, her eyes roving over the camp and quite obviously seeing none of it. Perhaps instead she was seeing a woman, in chiton and scholar's gown, standing in a lecture-hall in that city of learning, and a class full of students writing down her words for further study. Surely that vision would entice her; a woman more intelligent than any two or three men put together, but held back because of her sex. He watched her, waiting. Surely she would leap at the chance?

Apparently not; at least, she turned back to him and stated a proviso. 'I would need to teach girls and ladies too.'

And now it was Henry's turn to pause, and he laughed in surprise, and in surprise at his own surprise. He raised his cup.

'Atalanta would be proud of you, and Aesculapius' daughters, and the Huntress herself. I accept your condition. You'll come home with us to England, and teach at the school of astrology, and perhaps you and Montjoy will write the story of our adventures in the sky. That's a tale that needs to be told, too.'

-x-

Montjoy. He'd have a lifetime now to say to Montjoy all that he wanted; but there was one thing in particular that he wanted to say. But the camp was busy for now; the gunners were rolling barrels of powder to the towers and setting them in place, the guard about de Rais' treasure-carts was being changed; at an impromptu range down past the horse-lines a hundred archers were at their practice, their arrows thumping into the targets. Henry gazed round at his camp, and caught a glimpse of a tall figure standing next to his brother, the dark and golden heads inclined close together. They were getting to be fast friends, those two; and there was Tommaso with them, standing stiff and formal, pointing something out in a book, with just a single guard at his shoulder. He could leave them for now, and go and check on the placing of the charges.

So it was not until sunset that he had his chance. A short and businesslike repast in his tent over which the commanders settled the details of their departure the next day, and discussed one final, startling piece of news that had come in from Troyes; namely, that Princess Katherine had three days since been married to the son of the Duke of Burgundy.

'Small wonder we had free passage through France!' Henry remarked, doing his best not to show how pleased he was. He fell to privately wondering how an alliance with Jean of Brittany might be furthered.

The Lady Venus was at her height in the west (did she see them as they saw her? Was this marriage her gift to them – or to Katherine and Philip?) as his kinsmen and guests departed, leaving just the guards at the tent-flap, and in its inner room, Henry, smiling at Montjoy.

'It's good news, is it not?'

'Yes. For so many reasons, and I'm selfish enough to be glad for my own sake.'

'Selfish! Well, if that's how you'd put it – I would not. But enough of that. We've had so little time since we got back; there's been so much to do. It'll always be like this, I fear; a king's work is never done. But you'll have work too; we'll be busy, you and I! And there's one thing more – or rather, two...' He went over to the chest at the foot of his camp-bad (another bed set up close by), and brought up from its depths two items that he had carried with him since St-Malo. 'Here.' A leathern coat, scuffed and stained, and a long sword.

'Oh... ' Montjoy's hands went out to take hold of them. He was smiling, too, now. 'I thought I would not see these again.'

'And I thought not see you wearing them again. Here, put them on.' And Henry helped him into the coat, and buckled the sword-belt around him. 'Remember how I did this, back in the forest after the horn-faces' charge?'

'Yes. I didn't know where to look.'

'I was being a little wicked, I confess. It was too good an opportunity to miss. I liked being so close to the French Herald.' His arms rested around that trim waist longer than was entirely necessary, as they had then; they leaned together, and kissed. Kissed again.

A little while later, when they were sitting on the lid of the chest, since the camp-beds were not up to the weight of two men sitting so close together - 'Do you remember I once said I would give you an earldom?'

'Yes?' Montjoy smiled affectionately at him. 'That night at St-Malo. It was the kind of thing people say when they have to part.'

'I meant it.'

Montjoy stared at him. So rarely had he seen his herald at a loss for words. Then he stammered, 'But it's too great a honour. I cannot administer an earldom, and your kinsmen – Henry, you're surely not serious.'

Henry took his hand. 'You're better able to administer an earldom than most men born to the rank. My kinsmen owe their lives to you, most of them. And they saw what I did, back then - and by the old rite, for a king to belt a sword on one of his men was to confer an earldom anyway.'

Montjoy drew in a breath. 'Why, that's true. I had not thought, in the confusion of that moment... But it's true.'

'That's as well. For with an earldom goes a seat on the Privy Council, and the duty to the king to advise him well, which I doubt not you will carry out; and a castle and town and all the lands pertaining thereto. So it seemed to me that it would be good to create you Earl of Monmouth, to hold it in the king's name, and to administer it to the best of your ability.'

'Monmouth.' Montjoy was all seriousness now.

'Yes. Would that please you? I know,' continued Henry diffidently, 'that you cannot be Montjoy Herald any longer, and it grieves me for it's my fault in part, and no doubt grieves you more. But this, I thought, would be some recompense.'

'Monmouth,' repeated Montjoy, trying to take it in, 'where you were born.'

'Yes.'

'If it were any other place, I would refuse – no, it's too great an honour for me! But Monmouth...'

'It's a green and beautiful place. Do you remember Castle Hill, and how I said the river there reminded me of the one at Monmouth? That's the Monnow; it's a quick little stream, and the banks are all grown with wild-flowers in the summer. There's the Wye on the other side, and a thriving market too – and you'll look after the castle where I was born and keep the county's people safe. When you're not busy about your tasks as the King's Enchanter, or taking care of the king's well-being in other ways! Well, dear herald – for that's how I'll always think of you – what do you say?'

'Dear king, I say yes. How can I refuse such a gift? And I'll take care of your town, and do my best for its people – and for its most famous son.'

'Of course you will. It's not in you to do otherwise.' He sighed in satisfaction. 'Therefore, be welcome to our household, Earl of Monmouth;' he added formally, and knowing it was the last time he'd be formal that night, 'be welcome, King's Enchanter.'

END


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